Thicker Than Blood
by rainmaker1
Summary: Happenings in the Crouch household from the time Barty Jr. is smuggled out of Azkaban to Voldemort's arrival on the scene. Rated PG-13 for torture scenes in later chapters. *Chapt. 8 is up*
1. Awakenings

Summary: Happenings in the Crouch household from the time Barty Jr. was smuggled out of Azkaban to Voldemort's arrival on the scene. As far as I know no one's ever done anything like this before.  
  
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, they belong to J.K. Rowling. (But if you've actually *gasp* read GoF you already knew that.)  
  
  
  
  
  
Thicker Than Blood  
  
  
  
By: rainmaker  
  
Chapter 1: Awakening  
  
  
  
When Barty awoke, he realized that he was lying on something far softer than the cold stone surface of his bed in Azkaban. And without opening his eyes he knew also that he was wrapped in layers of warm blankets that contrasted sharply with the threadbare sheet he had almost become accustomed to. "Mmmmf.." He groaned as he opened his eyes. Sunlight, streaming in from some unknown source pierced his eyes for the first time in months. This was *definitely* not his cold, stone-walled, windowless cell. Barty tried to sit up, but his body was too weak, completely drained of strength. Lying down again he turned his head groggily, still not sure where he was, and completely at loss as to how he'd gotten there.  
  
His vision was blurred, and he had to shake himself to clear his head. Lifting his head to have another look around, he found himself gazing at the familiar surroundings of his old room in his family's manor. It was just as he had left it almost a year before, when the aurors had arrested him in that very room. The remains of a small mirror still lay on the floor in pieces. (He had not gone quietly with them, and the mirror had fallen during his desperate struggle.)  
  
"Wha..?" He surprised himself by trying to utter the word, realizing just how long it had been since he'd heard his own voice. It was hoarse and gravelly from going for months without use. Barty tried once more to get up, finally managing to pull himself up into sitting position with his back resting against the headboard of the bed. He listened intently for any noise but he seemed to be completely alone in the house.  
  
Finally venturing to use his weak scratchy voice, Barty croaked, "Hello?" and listened again to see that he was really alone. Hearing no one, he dragged himself to the edge of the bed, and rested his feet on the hardwood floor. Looking down at himself, he saw that he was still dressed in the robes he had worn in Azkaban. They were torn, frayed, and covered with grime from sleeping on the dirty stone bed in his cell.  
  
Groaning again, he forced his weak, cramped muscles to stand and tried to drag himself across the room. He hadn't gone two feet before he collapsed in a heap on the ground. His head spun, and he felt as though his limbs were made of lead. Even free of Azkaban, the physical toll the dementors took on him remained strong. He lay there until he heard footsteps running along the hallway outside his door.  
  
Barty braced himself for the worst, imagining Ministry officials rushing into the room and dragging him back to Azkaban. But to his astonishment, the house elf, Winky, burst in and began wringing her hands when she saw him on his feet. "Oh! Master Barty, you is not to be getting up!" she said, doing a nervous sort of dance as she attempted to usher him back into bed. Too weak to protest, Barty let her drag him back towards the bed, but he suddenly stopped dead, refusing to go another step.  
  
He was angry all of a sudden. His head was spinning and he was still completely confused. Turning on the nervous elf, he growled, "What's going on Winky? How did I get here? Tell me, elf!" He grabbed her small shoulders so tightly that the house- elf gave a small squeak of pain.  
  
Winky was shaking like a leaf, waving her thin arms and trying to quiet him. "Master Barty, please don't be speaking so loud! Your father is having guests downstairs, he is telling Winky keep you very quiet! He-"  
  
She stopped abruptly. They both heard voices downstairs. Barty could hear his father's curt voice speaking urgently to someone. "No Minister, I'm sure it's just my house-elf working upstairs, I'll see to it she quiets down." His heavy footsteps hurried up the stairs, and he stormed into the room. He glared at Winky. "Elf!" he said sharply. "I believe I told you to keep him silent if he were to awaken!"  
  
Winky cowered, shrinking back against the wall. Her small voice rose an octave as she tried to explain herself. "I is sorry Master, Winky is coming up as soon as she hears him wake." But Mr. Crouch ignored her stuttering voice, his cold gray eyes sweeping across the room to where his son lay in a ragged, disheveled heap, still too weak to stand on his own. There was disgust in his voice when he spoke, as though he were addressing some drunken muggle tramp he'd discovered sleeping on his doorstep, and not his only son.  
  
"Another word out of you, boy, and I'll have you dragged straight back to that prison rock and leave you to rot there!" He was about to turn and sweep out of the room when he turned to his quivering house-elf again, snapping angrily at her. "Put him into some decent clothes while you're here. I don't want to see him in those moth-eaten rags again!"  
  
Barty Jr. opened his mouth to yell something at his father, in his anger forgetting to be frightened of the Minister of Magic hearing from down the stairs, and even forgetting to fear a return to Azkaban. But Mr. Crouch stormed out of the room as quickly as he'd come, and Barty only managed a weak, gagging noise before his illness forced him to collapse on the floor again, shaking with anger.  
  
Winky dashed over to him, and with some difficulty, (he was far bigger than the tiny house-elf) managed to hoist him back into his bed. She shook her finger scoldingly at him. "Master Barty, you is staying here and being very quiet while Winky is fetching you some new clothes."  
  
"What if I don't want to put on different clothes? What if I prefer to wear these?" he snarled. Of coarse, Barty would have preferred almost anything to his tattered Azkaban rags, but his head had begun to spin again and he suddenly felt rebellious. Winky threw up her tiny hands, pleading with him.  
  
"Master Barty, your father is telling Winky put you in new clothes!"  
  
"What if I don't feel like taking orders from him!?" Barty was looking positively menacing now, his voice cracking slightly, and the terrified elf took a step back from him. The pale-faced young man was suddenly hit by a spell of dizziness, and slumped back on the bed, exhausted by his violent outburst. He uttered a few meaningless, slurred phrases and slipped back into unconsciousness.  
  
Winky crept out of the room and down the hall to the closet where all of Barty's clothes had been stored since he'd been sentenced to Azkaban almost a year before. She picked out the forest green robes which had always been his favorite and hurried back, hoping he hadn't woken in her absence. She could still hear Mr. Crouch and Cornelius Fudge's voices coming from the main floor of the manor. The Crouches being a very old pureblood family, and Mr. Crouch being such an important member of the Ministry of Magic, their house was very old and very large. Generations of Crouches had added rooms until it became a veritable mansion.  
  
Creeping softly back into Barty's room, the elf relaxed when she saw he was still out cold. Using her own small magic to see that he remained that way, she managed to wrestle him into the clean garments and disposed of his old rags. They weren't worth repairing.  
  
  
  
  
  
Bartemius Crouch Sr. breathed a sigh of relief when Cornelius Fudge disapparated later that afternoon. In his opinion they would have done the better in giving Ludo Bagman the position of Minister of Magic. Of course, in his mind he would have been the ideal man for the job. To think people had wanted Albus Dumbledore to run for Minister! Dumbledore was a great wizard, certainly, but how would he ever have gotten anything done? The man was so random and disorganized. Crouch shuddered at the very thought. He had always prided himself on being perfectly methodized in the way he ran his office.  
  
He started up the staircase towards Barty's room, but thought the better of it. The longer he delayed the dreaded reunion with his son the better. Walking through one of the manor's older areas towards his own room, he frowned. Damn the boy! It was his fault. His fault he had lost his one chance of becoming Minister of Magic!  
  
"I should have never agreed to this." He chided himself angrily, entering his bedroom and settling into a chair by the fireplace. "I should have left him there to rot. He deserves no less."  
  
He felt a terrible sadness beginning inside of him. Barty deserved Azkaban, but Sicilia, his beloved wife, was enduring his terrible punishment instead. Trying his hardest not to think about his wife wasting away in Azkaban, he picked up a book off the nearby shelf and read to keep his mind off things. It was an old muggle novel, Les Miserables, which had belonged to Sicilia. She had always been fascinated by muggles.  
  
Crouch sighed. Everything reminded him of her now.  
  
Someone knocked softly on the door. "Who is it?" he called in exasperation. Of coarse, he knew without an answer who it was. The only people in the manor were himself, Winky, and Barty, who had never once in his life knocked before entering a room, and certainly wasn't likely to begin practicing common courtesy now.  
  
A tiny, stuttering voice answered him. "I-it is Winky, Master."  
  
"Come in then."  
  
The elf cautiously entered, opening the door with some difficulty, as she had to jump to reach the handle. "Winky is wondering when Master is wishing his dinner to be fixed."  
  
Crouch sighed. He always ate at exactly 6:30, but the elf always persisted in asking him, just in case Hell should freeze over and he made a change in his schedule. "6:30 Winky, as always." The elf bowed and turned to leave, but he stopped her. "I trust that Barty was asleep when you left him? He is ill, but he might still attempt an escape."  
  
"He is sleeping when Winky is going from his room, Master." She said, nodding her head so that her large ears flapped.  
  
He nodded curtly, waving her away. "Very well, you may go."  
  
  
  
  
  
A/N: Couldn't think where to end this chapter, so I just left it at that. Pretty please review? No flaming though, it's my first fic! 


	2. Memories

Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, they belong to J.K. Rowling.  
  
  
  
Chapter 2: Memories  
  
  
  
The next morning, Barty was still unconscious. If anything, he looked worse than before. His skin, which had always been pale, had turned a sickly yellow color, and his breathing was labored, a rasping noise emitting from his throat every time he inhaled.  
  
Winky was standing on a chair beside his bed, trying to carefully pour a healing potion down his throat without awakening him. The potion was a strange grayish-brown color, and the house elf didn't envy her master having to drink it. She was finding it very difficult to reach his mouth with the goblet, even standing on her toes atop the chair. Setting the steaming potion down, she went over to the bookcase in the corner and pulled out a few thick volumes, dragging them over to the bedside and piling them on her chair one by one. Climbing back up onto the books, she reached over with the potion to try again, but slipped suddenly, accidentally pouring the entire goblet of thick, steaming liquid into Barty's mouth all at once.  
  
He immediately woke up, coughing and spluttering, trying to wipe the horrible taste from his mouth. Winky gave a squeak of horror and dashed out of the room, returning only seconds later with a towel. She leapt onto the bed, trying furiously to wipe the disgusting liquid from his clothes and face, all the while babbling desperate apologies.  
  
"I is sorry Master Barty, Winky is sorry! I is cleaning it up for you, Winky is very sorry!" She was so distressed that she didn't seem to notice that her efforts were only aggravating him. Barty was trying to push her off him, but she couldn't hear his weak protests over her own babble.  
  
"Winky, get off me! * Get off!* he finally managed to raise his hoarse voice above a whisper. The elf jumped back, still trying to apologize for covering him with a goblet of grayish goo.  
  
"Oh! Master Barty you is soaking wet! Winky is getting you new clothes to change into!" And she dashed back out into the hall, her tiny bare feet slapping on the hardwood floor.  
  
Barty sat up with some difficulty, and rubbed his eyes. Some of the potion he'd managed to swallow had obviously helped, as his vision was coming sharply into focus, and he could now sit up on his own. Looking down at himself, he saw that his front was completely soaked through with gray-brown liquid, and his clothes were steaming.  
  
His stomach gave a loud rumble, and he realized for the first time that he was terribly hungry. "I probably haven't eaten in days." He mumbled to himself out loud. It occurred to him then that he had no idea as to just how long he'd been lying in his room before he'd woken up the day before.  
  
When Winky ran back into the room, her arms piled with fresh clothing, he stopped her. "Winky," he croaked. "how long have I been here? What day is it?"  
  
The elf shuffled her feet nervously. Mr. Crouch had told her as soon as he'd got Barty home that she was to tell him very little. "If he asks too many questions, come to me." He'd said sternly. * But what harm would it do to tell him this?* she thought.  
  
"Your father is bringing you here four days ago, Master Barty. Today is November fourth. Is you not remembering coming from Azkaban?" She asked timidly.  
  
Barty put a hand to his head, ignoring her question. He didn't have any memory of being brought from Azkaban. In fact, he remembered very little that had happened to him inside of the dreaded fortress.  
  
Winky broke into his thoughts by saying, "Master Barty is you being able to dress yourself?" She held out the pile of clothes.  
  
"What? Yes, I suppose so. I'm hungry though, go make me something to eat, Winky." The elf dashed down to the kitchen while he struggled to put on the clean robes. In the kitchen, Winky found her master working at the dining room table filling out more papers for his office. Without looking up, he said, "Is he awake yet?"  
  
"Yes Master. He is telling Winky make him something to eat. He isn't eating since you is bringing him home, sir."  
  
"Good. Did you give him the potion as I ordered?"  
  
His elf hesitated for a moment, reluctant to admit to him how she had spilled the whole goblet, very little of it actually being swallowed. Crouch looked up suspiciously during her awkward silence. "Well?"  
  
"I- I is accidentally spilling the potion, Master." She squeaked.  
  
He gave an exasperated sigh, turning back to his paperwork. "Then fetch another goblet and give it to him with his food." He snapped. Mr. Crouch hated being interrupted when he was working. He liked getting everything done as quickly as possible.  
  
Winky gave a clumsy bow and hurried into the kitchen.  
  
  
  
Upstairs, Barty was feeling the effects of the potion already. He found that he could now stand without his knees buckling, and managed to drag himself into the hall before slumping back against the wall, breathing hard. He wanted to get to the bathroom and look in the mirror. He hadn't seen himself in months, and was curious as to how much his stay in Azkaban had altered his appearance.  
  
Upon looking in the large, floor-length mirror, Barty almost wished he hadn't. His entire body was bone-thin, and the robes that had once fit him comfortably now hung loosely on his body. His sapphire blue eyes, which he had been complimented on so many times before, seemed clouded, almost as though he was losing his sight. His hair had always been unkempt; a fact which had always greatly annoyed his father, but now it was a tangled mess, with so much dirt in it that Barty himself found it difficult to believe it had once been golden-blonde. His freckles stood out against the milk-white of his skin. He realized it had been almost a year since he'd seen sunlight.  
  
Winky chose that moment to walk into his empty room. Finding him gone, she gave a squeak of alarm, and almost dropped the tray she was carrying. Barty heard her from down the hall and limped quickly back towards his bedroom, clinging to the wall for support. Unfortunately, Mr. Crouch had also heard her from his office downstairs. He dropped his work and rushed up the stairs, fearing the worst and drawing his wand as an added precaution. Turning a corner, he collided head on with his son, who was hurrying in the other direction. Barty's weak, shaky legs gave out underneath him, and he was knocked flat on his back.  
  
Crouch stopped dead, not bothering to help his son up. He hadn't expected Barty to be on his feet so soon. He would have to decide how to contain him, and quickly, as at this rate he would probably have full use of his legs in a few days. Shaking himself from his thoughts, Crouch glared suspiciously at the young man struggling on the floor. "Where did you think you were going, boy?" He bellowed. "Trying to escape? This is the thanks I get for dragging you out of Azkaban? How far did you think you'd get, on those legs? Why, I'm surprised you're even standing!"  
  
Barty had managed to drag himself to his feet by clinging to the wall. Glaring daggers at his father, he sneered, "Why'd you free me anyway? Decided to help out a poor * stranger*?"  
  
Crouch gave no answer. Grabbing his son's arm painfully tight, he dragged the struggling boy down the hallway and shoved him roughly into his room. Winky was cowering against the wall in a corner, the tray of food still clutched in her shaking hands. "Keep a closer eye on him from now on, elf!" he snapped, and stormed out of the room.  
  
Barty's struggle had drained all of his strength, and he lay on the bed, panting and gasping. Winky set down her tray, and moved him on the bed so that his head was propped up against the pillows. She took the full goblet of the healing potion and tried to give it to him, hoping he wouldn't put up a fight. At first, Barty tried to knock the goblet from her hands, but she shook her finger at him, saying, "Master Barty, you is taking your potion now so you is getting well again!" He finally gave in and let her tip the potion down his throat, too weak to struggle.  
  
She pulled the bed covers on top of him and set the tray of food in his lap before leaving him to eat. Barty was ravenous, and it only took him a few minutes to wolf down the soup and sandwich. After he'd eaten, he settled back and tried to clear his head. Almost everything that had happened prior to his awakening the day before was a blur. His one vivid memory was the day he'd been sentenced to a life in Azkaban. Sentenced to a fate worse than death by his own father. Barty suddenly wished he'd had his wand, or preferably a knife when they had collided in the hallway.  
  
But what had he been accused of? He frowned. For torturing someone, he knew that much. Who though? He reached into his memory, trying to find some hint there. Suddenly, a conversation between two people came to mind. The first voice was his own, and the second belonged to Ariana Lestrange.  
  
"We'll pay the Longbottoms a visit tonight. The man is an auror, he'll know where our master is."  
  
"And what if he won't talk?"  
  
"Oh, I'm fairly certain we'll be able to persuade him. He has a son no more than a year old. I doubt Frank would want anything * unfortunate* to happen to him."  
  
Barty smiled as he began to recall all that had happened next.  
  
  
  
(1982) * * *  
  
Four figures shivered in the chill November air, their shapes silhouetted against the glow of a near-full moon. They stood atop a grassy embankment, a safe distance away from the house they had been watching since sunset.  
  
One of them, a small, nervous man with watery eyes piped up suddenly. "What are we waiting for?" he hissed through his teeth. "It's dark, there's no one around! The longer we stay here, the greater the risk of being captured!"  
  
Ariana Lestrange, a tall woman with dark, hooded eyes and black hair, wearing a set, determined look, slapped him upside the head. "The more you talk, the greater the risk of being captured!" she snapped  
  
"But Ariana, if we go in now, we'll still take them by surprise, and-"  
  
"And any other people that might be in that house!" Barty Crouch put in. "I've been watching them since six o' clock, and I saw a group of people go in just before the rest of you came. We want the Longbottoms alone, so we'll have to wait until anyone else that's in the house has gone." The thickset man standing behind him grunted in agreement, just as the front door of the house opened and five wizards carrying broomsticks exited, waving to the people inside before mounting their brooms and taking off.  
  
"You see?" Hissed Barty. "They would have had us outnumbered if we had simply charged in just then!"  
  
"And some of them were probably aurors. A nice little get- together for them, celebrating Master's 'downfall'." Ariana added bitterly.  
  
"If all goes as planned tonight, * we'll* be the only ones with any cause to celebrate." Barty said, flashing her an evil grin before jerking his thumb in the direction of the Longbottom house. "Let's go."  
  
* * * *  
  
"Frank, get off of the couch and help me clean up this mess!" said Nicole Longbottom, flicking a soggy dish towel at her husband, who had collapsed onto the living room couch as soon as their guests had departed.  
  
"But Nicki-"  
  
"Frank, they're * your* friends, * you* invited them, so * you* can clean up after them!"  
  
The auror sighed and sat up, yawning, before trudging wearily into the kitchen. He glanced at the clock as he passed. Eleven o' clock. He smiled. They hadn't intended to drag their small dinner party past six, but it had been a long while since they had last seen each other. All of them were aurors, and during the years of Voldemort's rein, most of them had been overworked, with no time for socializing or parties. It had become extremely dangerous to be an auror, and fewer and fewer people had wanted the job.  
  
Frank began clearing empty dishes off the table, using a summoning charm to make them fly into his waiting hands. He grinned at his wife, who was attempting to do two things at once, clearing the countertop with magic and washing dishes by hand.  
  
He set his armload of dishes down when he heard one-year- old Neville crying from his room down the hall. "Should I take care of that, or can you handle it?" he asked Nicole, giving her a playful grin. One of her arms was elbow-deep in dish soap, while the other was holding her wand. She glared at him, and -dropping her wand for a moment- flicked her dishtowel threateningly.  
  
Frank dodged the towel, laughing, and went down the hall to Neville's room. He picked him up for a moment, and the baby immediately stopped crying. The auror gave an exasperated sigh, but smiled at his son. "What's the matter Nevi? You must be hungry."  
  
In truth, hunger was not what had woken Neville up. He had been happily playing with his stuffed bear when four shadowy figures had walked past the window across from his crib.  
  
Just as Frank was summoning a bottle out of the air, the doorbell rang, and his wife called from downstairs. "I'll get it, Frank!" He could hear her splashing across the kitchen, trying to tidy herself up before confronting whoever had decided to visit in the middle of the night.  
  
Frank listened to her open the door and greet their visitors. At first her voice was calm, with a false cheerfulness that made it clear she was in no mood to have any more guests that night, but he frowned suddenly. Her voice was beginning to slide up an octave, and she was sounding more and more nervous. He set Neville down in his crib, and as he did, there was a loud bang and a shrill, terrified scream from the living room.  
  
Frank rushed down the hallway, following his wife's screams. He knew immediately that it was the Death Eaters, the ones who had somehow managed to avoid Azkaban. He cursed himself for not taking Dumbledore's advice and going into hiding with his family for a while. Bursting into the living room, he was immediately grabbed from behind by a tall, burly man whose face seemed set in a permanent scowl.  
  
The Death Eaters wasted no time. Barty sauntered coolly over to the struggling auror and said in the calmest voice he could muster, given that he was jumping with excitement on the inside, "Longbottom, I would like you to tell us the whereabouts of our master, Lord Voldemort."  
  
"How should I know where he is?" Frank spat, still struggling in the burly Death Eater's iron grip. "As far as I know, he's gone, and good riddance-"  
  
"He is not * gone,"* Barty hissed, and the crazed look in his eyes was enough to make the seasoned auror shiver. "The Potter boy's lucky escape merely subdued him, and we will be the most honored of his servants, for returning him to power!"  
  
"I wouldn't tell you where your damn master was even if I *did* know!" Frank sneered.  
  
"But never mind," said Barty, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "We came prepared for your insolence, auror." Raising his wand he bellowed, * Crucio!"* And Frank collapsed on the floor, screaming and writhing with pain. Bruises began to blossom all over the auror's body as Barty dragged the curse out for a full five minutes, thinking that Frank would eventually give in.  
  
His fellow Death Eaters had been watching the auror's suffering silently, but Ariana snapped at Barty when she saw that Frank's pleas were becoming weaker and weaker. "He won't be good for anything if you keep that up!"  
  
Barty withdrew the curse somewhat hesitantly. He'd been having *such* fun.  
  
Ariana cruelly pulled the shaking auror up by his hair. "Are you prepared to tell us, auror?"  
  
Frank glared around the room, gasping for breath and wincing whenever he moved. "I've already told you all I know! Please, just leave us be! " He sobbed, his strength dissolving at the sight of his wife, lying gagged on the floor nearby with a huge cut oozing blood across her face.  
  
"Hmm." said Ariana, focusing her gaze on Nicole. "Perhaps your wife will be more easily persuaded."  
  
"No! Please, leave her alone! We don't know anything, we- " Frank's pleas were cut short as he was hit with the Cruciatus Curse again. Barty could hear the auror's screams mingling with his wife's as he headed down the hallway, searching for their son's room.  
  
He heard crying from a doorway to his left, and opened it to find Neville awake and crying in his crib, trying to sit up. The Death Eater grinned, picking the child up and hurrying back down the hallway towards the couple's screams. Entering the room, he signaled the others to stop their fun, and held Neville out so that the child's parents could see. "You two may be stubborn enough not to talk when we put the Cruciatus Curse on *you*, but I wonder how long Neville here will hold out?"  
  
"No!" Nicole cried, reaching out desperately. "Please!" But she was cut off as all four Death Eaters raised their wands and yelled, "Crucio!" placing the curse on the entire family at once.  
  
Barty was gleefully watching Neville scream, laughing as his little face got redder and redder. Suddenly, he heard loud voices and heavy footsteps outside of the house. "Aurors!" he yelled at his companions, who followed him out the back door, leaving the Longbottom family screaming and pleading on the living room floor.  
  
  
  
  
  
(1983) * * *  
  
Barty grinned, lying back against the pillows. Before, he'd hardly had time to remember and relish the look on Frank Longbottom's face as he was tortured. But his expression turned sour as he remembered what had taken place afterwards.  
  
The four of them had apparated to the Lestranges' house to decide what they were to do. The aurors had glimpsed their faces before they disapparated, and the entire country would be on the lookout for them by daybreak. In the end they had agreed to flee England and search for Voldemort abroad.  
  
But a group of aurors and ministry officials, including Mad-Eye Moody and Barty's own father had caught up with them in Italy. There had been a brief struggle, but in the end all four of them had been captured and taken back to England where, of course, their famed trial had taken place and they had been thrown in Azkaban.  
  
Now, as Barty gazed at the ceiling of his room, he began to remember the day of his imprisonment. He had fought them, the aurors who had dragged him to his cell and left him there, with the dementors who always stayed just outside of the bars. At first he'd struggled madly, throwing himself against the stone walls in a vain, desperate attempt to escape, but by nightfall they had stolen what little strength he'd had left.  
  
He closed his eyes, trying to stop the memories from flooding in, but they stayed, haunting him until he eventually fell into a deep, fitful sleep.  
  
  
  
A/N: That was a bit of a long chapter. r/r, as always. 


	3. Eavesdropping and a Visit From Bertha Jo...

A/N: I'd like to thank Draconic Ragnorock a thousand times over for being my first (and so far *only*) reviewer.  
  
Disclaimer: I own only Michael Shipman, Jacob Dias, and Paul Aries. All other characters belong to J.K. Rowling.  
  
  
  
Chapter 3: Eavesdropping and a Visit from Bertha Jorkins  
  
  
  
Barty Crouch Sr. was late to the office two days in a row over the next few weeks, nothing short of a record for him, but not one he was at all proud of. He was a creature of habit, and any change in his bland daily schedule was enough to make him noticeably uptight.  
  
Hurrying down one of the Ministry Building's narrow hallways toward his office, Barty tried desperately to come up with a quick alibi to get him past Bertha Jorkins, who worked in the office across from his, and always seemed to know when anyone was late or gone from work. She had been known to plant herself outside of a co-worker's door and refuse to give them entrance to their own office until they gave her a good reason for being late. Of course, no one ever told Bertha the truth, as she was always willing to share any juicy pieces of gossip she might acquire with anyone and everyone.  
  
But to his relief, Bertha didn't seem to be in that morning. "A good thing, too." He muttered to himself, beginning to sift through the stacks of papers lying neatly on his desk. "What would I have told her?"  
  
The reason he was late was his son, of course. The boy's hair had grown past shoulder-length, and was still so matted and tangled that it was impossible to run a comb through, despite Winky's valiant efforts.  
  
When Barty Jr. had wandered downstairs that morning, (still clinging to the wall for support) Crouch had decided that the state of the boy's hair was unacceptable. "Boy," he'd snapped, feeling the smallest pang of guilt when he realized that he hadn't called his son 'Barty' in over a year. "Winky will be cutting your hair today. I'm sick of playing host to someone who looks like they've just crawled from off the streets!"  
  
Barty Jr.'s anger was rekindled by the sharp order. "Who's going to see me?" he sneered. "I mean," he went on, his pent-up fury flaring up suddenly. "Just imagine what would happen to your career if anyone *were* to see me. Or if I were to, perhaps, turn myself in?" He knew perfectly well that it was a hollow threat, that he would never turn himself in, not even if he spent the rest of his life locked in the house with Winky and his damned father.  
  
Crouch leapt from his chair, turning on his son. "I'd watch how you speak to me *my son. *" He hissed, spitting out the last two words. Without giving a thought to what he was doing, he raised his wand, shouting, "Imperio!"  
  
Barty's face suddenly went very slack, the anger gone from his eyes to be replaced by a dull, indifferent look. Winky, who had been standing unnoticed behind them throughout the entire argument, let out a gasp of shocked horror. Being the servant of a high-ranking Ministry official, she knew all about the Unforgivable Curses, and the consequences of using them.  
  
Hearing her sudden intake of breath, Crouch dropped his wand, immediately releasing his son from the effects of the Curse. He hadn't ever even considered using Imperius to control Barty Jr. Certainly, he had always encouraged the use of the Unforgivable Curses against Death Eaters, but he had never, before that moment, used one himself. Part of him was terrified at the thought of it. After all, it was one thing to use the Imperius Curse against any *other* Death Eater, but against one's own son-  
  
Crouch's thoughts were interrupted when Barty, a look of humiliated fury on his face, turned and ran back up the stairs, his still-unsure footing causing him to stumble with each step. For a while Crouch listened to his son's heavy footsteps pounding upstairs, and winced when a door slammed loudly, shaking him from his oblivious state. He turned to Winky, ignoring the horror still etched on her features, and snapped, "Well? Go, elf!" he pointed up the stairs after his son. "Trim his hair and see to it that he puts on the invisibility cloak!" He threw the silvery garment, which had been hanging on the back of a chair, at her and she gave a clumsy bow before dashing upstairs, tripping over the light, airy folds of the invisibility cloak as she went along.  
  
He had apparated immediately to the office then, and currently sat at his desk, trying to clear his mind of all that had taken place, attempting to lose himself in his work.  
  
Crouch suddenly heard a group of voices chatting away just outside of his office door. He frowned down at his desk. It annoyed him that his fellow Ministry workers always seemed to be standing about in the hallways, chattering away when there was work to be done. He stood up, thinking to tell them to clear off, but froze suddenly, and began to listen closely to their conversation.  
  
It sounded as though the group consisted of Michael Shipman, a young man who was new to the Ministry, Jacob Dias, who worked at St. Mungo's but was a frequent visitor to the Ministry building, and Paul Aries, who worked for the Department of Magical Disasters.  
  
Dias had a loud, booming voice, so it wasn't difficult for Crouch to listen in. "- anyway, I've just come from Azkaban, (you know how St. Mungo's makes a yearly inspection of the place). Of coarse, it's really no more than a twenty-minute affair, all we really do is come in, check to see who's died in the past year, and we're on our merry way." He chuckled, but Crouch heard Aries snort dissaprovingly. "Oh, come on Paul!" Dias boomed, sounding extremely cheerful for someone who had just come from Azkaban. "I know what you're thinking, but you know what these people are like! The more of them die, the safer we are, I say."  
  
Aries grumbled under his breath, but finally he spoke. "Why're you here anyway? I thought you worked 'till six on Tuesdays. Given yourself another day off, eh?"  
  
Dias chuckled again, but some of his characteristic cheerfulness seemed to have left him. "I'm here on business Jake." His voice lowered suddenly and Crouch had to press his ear against the door to hear him. " You see, back at the hospital we drew straws to see who would have to break the news to old Barty Crouch. His son died just two days ago."  
  
Crouch's stomach plummeted. His wife was dead. He felt like running back to the house, missing his first day of work in twenty-five years, but the group outside wasn't finished talking yet, and they blocked his only exit. As he slid down to the floor, resting his back against the door and burying his face in his hands, Shipman piped up suddenly.  
  
"Good riddance to 'im!" he snarled angrily, " You all know what he did! The Longbottoms was some of the best people I ever met. They didn't deserve what they got, but Crouch deserved worse than death. I was one of the ones who was all for givin' him and those Lestranges the Kiss, but the Ministry wouldn't hear me out. I remember, I was in the same year 's Crouch Jr. at Hogwarts. There was always somethin' funny about that one, you know? I remember how everyone was a bit shocked when 'e got sorted into Slytherin, we all figured 'e'd be in Griffindor or Ravenclaw like 'is parents."  
  
"I suppose now we know why." Said Aries quietly, and low murmurs of assent came from the group.  
  
Dias cleared his throat loudly, eager to contribute his opinion. "Of coarse, what could you expect, with him coming from a family like that. Pureblooded, sure, but you know what his parents were like. The father never home, and the mother- well, you all knew Sicilia. Never quite grew up, did she?"  
  
Silence reined in the hallway outside for a few moments, and the sudden quiet jarred Crouch from his thoughts. He stood up abruptly and turned, swinging the door open to find them all standing there, Shipman with his mouth open as though he'd been about to say something. Crouch glared around at them, Aries shuffling his feet nervously, and Dias looking as though he was ready to forget his appointed task and break for the door.  
  
"Umm- Mr. Crouch-" Crouch turned to the St. Mungo's employee.  
  
"Yes?" he snapped impatiently.  
  
"Er- I've been sent to inform you that your son-" he took a step back, as though Crouch might decide to kill the messenger. "Your son is dead!" he blurted finally.  
  
"So I've heard!" Crouch snapped, turning on Aries and Shipman. "All three of you would do well to get back to work instead of standing about in the hallways gossiping like a bunch of schoolgirls!"  
  
The three men blanched, realizing that he had heard their conversation.  
  
"Shipman!" Crouch snarled, making the young man jump. "Get back to your department. You haven't been working here for more than a month. You're hardly an indispensable employee!"  
  
"Yes Mr. Crouch!" Shipman said, and dashed down the hallway with Aries at his heels. Crouch watched them go before rounding on Dias, who quickly took the hint and, grabbing his hat from a nearby chair, said curtly, "I'll be off, then." before turning on his heel and practically running for the door, looking over his shoulder every once in a while as though afraid that Crouch might be following him.  
  
When Dias was gone, Crouch went into his office and slumped back into his chair. He sat there for nearly twenty minutes, staring at the bland surface of his wooden desk, before jumping up from his chair. "Accio, file."  
  
A small green folder floated towards him and he caught it, sighing, sorry to be getting back to work for perhaps the first time in his life. "It really is a foolish little feud, though." He mumbled to himself, thinking about this latest problem the Minister had dumped on him.  
  
A conflict had arisen between Greece and Turkey when both countries had wanted to host the year's Quidditch World Cup. Cornelius Fudge ("That half-wit," thought Crouch sourly) had decided to get involved. Finding that his efforts were in vain, the Minister had turned to Crouch's department, thrusting the whole affair, considerably worsened, into their hands.  
  
Crouch sifted through the green folder, looking for a specific paper, and slammed it angrily on his desk when the item wasn't found. "Damn!" he hissed, realizing that he'd left it on the table at home. He grabbed his cloak and stormed from the room, heading back to the manor.  
  
  
  
Barty Jr., meanwhile, was sitting on a wooden stool in the bathroom with Winky standing on her toes behind him, trimming his golden hair, which was still somewhat tangled, though much cleaner than when he'd arrived. As always, Barty had put up a fight at first, ("You stay away from me with those scissors, elf, my hair's fine the way it is!") but she persisted and eventually won out. Barty sat grumbling to himself as she worked, reading the *Daily Prophet*.  
  
Winky trimmed off a last lock of hair, and put down her scissors to admire her work. "There you are, Master Barty, you is looking much better now." His hair *was* shorter than when he'd arrived from Azkaban, albeit uneven.  
  
Barty knew the second order his father had given Winky that morning, so he tried to slip downstairs without her noticing. As he reached the landing, though, her tiny voice squeaked, "Master Barty! Your father is telling Winky to make you wear the Invisibility Cloak!" she waved the garment around for emphasis.  
  
"Fine!" he snarled, snatching the cloak from her hands and putting it on, disappearing instantly. Winky could hear his angry footsteps storming down the stairs, though, and she followed him into the kitchen.  
  
Peeking in the kitchen door the room appeared to be empty, but a newspaper was floating in midair above the cabinet. "Master Barty?" she called timidly.  
  
"Right here." His voice growled from behind the paper.  
  
"Is you liking Winky to make you something to eat?"  
  
"Fine."  
  
"What is you wanting?"  
  
"I don't care, pick something!" he snapped irritably.  
  
The house-elf heard the bite in his voice and began to rummage through the cupboards, looking for something to fix.  
  
Just then, the doorbell rang. Winky put a finger to her lips, looking at the spot where the newspaper was still hovering in midair. "Stay quiet, Master Barty."  
  
She padded softly down the hallway to the large, oak front door, opening it cautiously and peering out. A woman stood there. She had obviously been expecting someone human-sized to open the door, because her gaze had been focused on a spot three feet above Winky's head.  
  
The woman had a round, cheerful face, but she wore a slightly dull expression that suggested she was none too bright. Winky recognized her as Bertha Jorkins and opened the door all the way, bowing formally. "Come in, Miss. Is you wishing to see my master?"  
  
Bertha stepped inside, beaming around at the house before her gaze traveled back to the elf at her feet. "Yes. He wasn't at the office this morning, so I thought I'd drop off a few papers for him to sign. Is he ill?" she said it with a suspicious look.  
  
Winky shook her head. "No, Miss. My master is leaving a short while ago. He is going in late this morning."  
  
"Ahh. I see." Said Bertha, but she was still looking at the elf as though trying to detect some hint that she was lying. "Well, perhaps he'll be by here for lunch, eh? I'll just wait here if it's alright with you." She helped herself to a seat on the leather couch without waiting for Winky's answer.  
  
The house-elf hesitated for a moment. Mr. Crouch had *never* come home for lunch, but she thought it would be rude to tell Bertha off. "Very well, Miss. Winky is getting back to her work." With another formal bow, she scurried off to the kitchen.  
  
Barty was still sitting atop the cabinet when she returned. He hadn't found anything in the *Daily Prophet* that looked even remotely to his interest. Just as he was about to give up and throw the paper into a corner, though, a tiny article in the bottom right-hand side of the second page caught his eye. It read:  
  
DARK LORD'S WHEREABOUTS CONFIRMED?  
  
As all in the wizarding community know, You-Know-Who, the killer of hundreds of muggles and wizards alike, disappeared in October of last year while attempting to perform the killing curse on young Harry Potter. The question on everyone's minds: is he gone for good? If the Dark Lord has gone into hiding as some believe, then where? Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School, claims that You-Know-Who is currently hiding out, biding his time, in Albania. "There is much evidence to prove this," he stated, "but so few of our kind read the muggle newspapers that many of us are unaware as to how much useful information they can contain. Sightings of a strange, dark shadow in Albanian forests have been reported all year. The muggle papers also mention that a great many animals in those same forests have been found dead, with markings on them that suggest they may have been possessed by a wizard at some point." Whether Dumbledore's theories turn out to be correct or not remains to be seen, but many people support the idea, and a few aurors have begun to search Albania for the Dark Lord.  
  
Barty stared at the article for a moment, thinking back to that night at the Longbottoms' residence. /If we'd had this information then, we'd have had a place to *start*, instead of charging blindly in to torture that damnable auror and his wife. /  
  
He began to laugh suddenly, without quite knowing why. "Too late." He whispered, giggling to himself. "Too late!" he bellowed suddenly, breaking into a fit of hysterical laughter. "One year too late! If we'd known then-" Winky had spun around when she heard his voice, and was trying desperately to quiet him.  
  
"No! Master Barty, please be quiet! Miss Jorkins is in the other room, Master Barty, she will hear you!" but her pleas were drowned out by Barty's laughter.  
  
"Oh, if we'd only known then!" he began to tear the paper to shreds, flinging them all over the room. "Albania! And meanwhile, we were questioning those damned Longbottoms!" He threw the remaining pieces of the newspaper to the floor, his hysterical laughter bubbling up again.  
  
Winky covered her ears as though it would keep Bertha Jorkins from hearing the noise, all the while sobbing quietly to herself. "No, no, no. Master Barty you is getting Winky into trouble. Master Barty, please be quiet!"  
  
From the next room, Bertha could indeed hear the racket coming from the kitchen. She had been admiring the old Oriental rug on the floor of the Crouches' living room when she heard Barty's laughter. She began to listen closer. The first voice certainly wasn't the high-pitched squeak of a house-elf. It was deeper, a human voice. Bertha frowned. She was sure the youthful tenor didn't belong to Mr. Crouch, but who else would be in his house?  
  
Bertha decided that the suspense was too much for her, and crept up to the kitchen doorway, peeking in through the crack between the door and the wall. She had already recognized the second voice to be Winky's, and sure enough, the house-elf was standing in the middle of the kitchen. Bertha adjusted her position to get a better look, and frowned again. The elf appeared to be talking to the empty air on top of the cabinet, pleading.  
  
She peered around the room, searching for the source of the second voice before realizing that the crazed laughter she'd first heard was coming from the exact spot on top of the cabinet where Winky's gaze was focused. "Oh, Master Barty!" the house- elf was wailing at the supposedly empty air. "Please be quiet! Your father will be angry with Winky, please!"  
  
/Barty? Your father? / Bertha Jorkins thought for a moment, and then had to suppress a terrified gasp as it dawned on her. "Barty Jr." she whispered.  
  
/Impossible-/ Bertha searched her mind for another explanation, but nothing came. /But he's dead! Unless-/ her thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the sound of the large, oak front doors slamming open and then shut. Loud, irritated footsteps echoed through the large house, and Mr. Crouch's voice rang out, "Winky! Where are you, you useless elf?"  
  
Bertha heard an audible gasp from the kitchen, and Barty Jr.'s raucous laughter stopped abruptly. Slipping back into the spacious living room, she collapsed back onto the couch just as Mr. Crouch stormed in. He jumped noticeably upon seeing her. "Jorkins! Why are you in my house instead of at the office?"  
  
"Good morning to you too, Mr. Crouch." Said Bertha, with as much cheerfulness as she could muster, given what she'd just witnessed. "You weren't in the office this morning, so I thought you might be ill and took the liberty of bringing you a few papers the Minister needs signed."  
  
Crouch seemed to relax considerably. "The World Cup conflict, is it?" He snatched the forms from her hands.  
  
"I'm not sure, Mr. Crouch. The Minister asked me not to look at them-"  
  
He snorted to himself, thinking, /If I know Bertha, she's read these forms enough to have them memorized. Fudge telling her not to look at them would only egg her on! / But out loud he only mumbled, "Good, very good."  
  
As Crouch sat down, taking up a quill and reading each form in turn, Bertha was having an inward battle with herself. /I've got to tell him that I know! Perhaps he'll do the right thing and turn himself in. But- what if he doesn't? / She watched his quill scratching across the papers, and suddenly blurted out, "Mr. Crouch, who've you got hiding in the kitchen?"  
  
He stood up abruptly, and Bertha knew she'd struck gold. She plunged on, oblivious to the dangerous situation she had placed herself in. "I waited here for you to come home, and I heard voices in your kitchen, Mr. Crouch. *Two* voices. One was the house-elf, Winky, and I think I've got a very good idea as to who the other voice belonged to."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about, Jorkins!" He hissed. "I've nothing to hide!"  
  
"I know what I heard!" she shot back. "You're hiding *him* here, aren't you! Your son! You smuggled him out of Azkaban, freed him from the fate that he deserved. I'd never have thought that you, of all people-"  
  
Bertha never got to finish. Mr. Crouch raised his wand high and roared, "Obliviate!"  
  
There was a flash of light, followed by a moment's silence. Bertha stood blinking for a moment, then shook herself as though coming out of a trance. "If you're done signing those forms, Mr. Crouch, I'd be glad to take them back to the Minister for you." She said, as though nothing had happened since she'd arrived, and in her mind nothing had.  
  
Crouch handed her the papers with a shaking hand, and she left, stopping in the doorway and giving him a cheery wave before setting off, walking to the south, in the opposite direction of the office.  
  
Mr. Crouch collapsed onto the couch as soon as she was out of sight. He buried his face in his hands and didn't look up until the kitchen door creaked open, seemingly by itself, and hurried footsteps could be heard climbing a staircase that appeared to be empty.  
  
  
  
A/N: Now that you've read this chapter, be good little girls and boys and review, 'kay? 


	4. An Escape

Disclaimer: I own nothing! J.K. Rowling owns it all! (Short n' sweet, eh?)  
  
A/N: Ugh. Sorry for the long wait. Hope this chapter makes up for it.  
  
  
  
Chapter 4: An Escape  
  
  
  
"Winky, I don't care how bored he's getting, I'm not letting him out of this house!"  
  
"But Master-"  
  
"No!"  
  
Mr. Crouch was lying on the living room couch, exhausted from an exceptionally stressful day at the office. Upon coming home, he'd collapsed, thinking he could finally get some rest. His relaxation was interrupted when his house elf, being unusually bold, had come in and confronted him, asking permission to take Barty Jr. outdoors to the large grassy area behind the house. "Winky would be keeping track of him!" she'd pleaded. "He isn't being out of the house in years, master!"  
  
Indeed, twelve years had passed since the incident with Bertha Jorkins, and Barty hadn't gone outside since the day he'd been brought home from Azkaban. He'd stayed inside, forced to keep quiet and under the Invisibility Cloak. His father had placed the Imperious Curse on him, but although he'd been confined to the house for twelve years, Barty's rebellious attitude had stayed. As of late, Mr. Crouch's cup of morning coffee had gotten into the habit of throwing itself at him, as though and invisible hand had deliberately knocked the cup into his face. Even though he knew this was exactly the case, his son always managed to creep upstairs under the Invisibility Cloak before Mr. Crouch, dripping hot coffee, could grab him.  
  
This was part of the reason that Winky's proposition had been flatly refused. She was determined, though. The elf still had one more weapon, but she hesitated to use it, fearing Crouch's anger. But as her master rose from the couch, rubbing his temples, she said quietly, "Master Barty's mother..." she gulped. "is not freeing him from Azkaban to be imprisoned again."  
  
Crouch stopped, and sank back onto the couch, staring at her. Winky seemed to take heart in the fact that she hadn't been reprimanded, and ventured to ask once more. Clasping her hands, the elf whispered, "Please, let him outside just once, Master."  
  
He rose once more from the couch and walked toward the stairs. At first, Winky thought he was simply going to ignore her. Then Crouch turned and said in a cold voice, "Very well. You may take him out for twenty minutes. No more, and never again." He walked up the stairs, and Winky followed him into Barty Jr.'s room, where a sunken area in the middle of the bed showed that there was someone lying on it.  
  
"Boy," said Mr. Crouch, addressing his son. A small grunt from the bed announced that Barty was listening. "I've decided to allow you a brief time outside today. Winky will be keeping watch over you, so don't even think to try anything. Are you listening?" he snapped. His son threw back the hood of the Invisibility Cloak for a moment and scowled at him. Crouch was shaken by the young man's appearance. His skin, not having been touched by sunlight in years, was deathly pale and his eyes were sunken and dimmed. He felt a small wave of pity for his son, and Winky's words came back to him: *"Master Barty's mother is not freeing him from Azkaban to be imprisoned again."*  
  
Crouch watched somewhat guiltily as his son threw the hood of the Cloak back on and disappeared from view again, then listened as Barty's footsteps followed Winky down the stairs. He didn't move from that spot until he heard the door downstairs opening, admitting the young man and the house elf outside. Crouch went downstairs and began to look out of the window to the area where two people were standing, though only one was visible. Winky's argument had not entirely convinced him, and his stomach began to twist into knots as he thought of all that could go wrong. The house-elf had promised that she would use her magic to restrain Barty should he begin to ponder an escape, but -  
  
Crouch froze. A loud knocking had come from the twin oak front doors. Rushing over to a window, he chanced a peek outside. Two people stood there. Cornelius Fudge, clad in his usual bowler hat, and his wife, a tall woman with shining auburn hair and hands that seemed far too big for her spindly arms.  
  
Crouch backed away from the window, his heart beating considerably faster. "Damn." He whispered to himself. If no one answered the door, Fudge and his wife would most likely think something was wrong. Like most house-elves, Winky very rarely left the house when her master wasn't home. Through the window, it sounded as though Mr. And Mrs. Fudge had just struck on that very thought.  
  
"You'd think that at least the house-elf would be in."  
  
"Perhaps she's gone out back. I've heard of people who have their elves do the gardening as well as indoor tasks."  
  
"I'll go look for her, dearest. House-elves usually know where to find their masters, perhaps she'll tell us where old Barty's gotten to."  
  
Crouch's heart, which had been beating a mile a minute, nearly stopped. He had no choice but to invite them in. If he didn't, the entire Bertha Jorkins affair was sure to play itself out over again. Fudge would walk around back and hear their voices... Crouch shuddered as he reached for the door handle and pulled it open so quickly that it ricocheted against the wall with a loud bang that made him wince. Both Fudges seemed startled by his abrupt appearance, but the Minister recovered in an instant, dashing up to Crouch and shaking his hand warmly. "Barty! How have you been? Julia and I were getting worried, we were about to go looking for your house-elf to see if she knew where to find you!"  
  
Crouch managed a shaky, forced smile although his mind was in the backyard, willing Barty and Winky to wait a moment longer before coming in. "Well, I'm right here Cornelius." He said, looking nervously around before inviting them in, his eyes darting towards the back door. The Minister and his wife helped themselves to the sofa once they were in the living room, and Crouch said awkwardly, "Was there something you wanted to see me about, Cornelius?" He really hoped that they weren't here for conversation, as the time he'd given Barty outside was nearly up, but his luck that day seemed to be all bad.  
  
The Minister seemed surprised by his question and looked at Crouch strangely as he asked, "Didn't you get our note Barty? We said we'd be stopping by for a Christmas visit today."  
  
Crouch silently cursed owl post as he answered. "I never got a note."  
  
Mrs. Fudge suddenly piped up. "Well, I suppose that's what we get for trying to use a Post Office owl instead of our own. The idiot bird will probably show up here tomorrow with our letter torn and stained." Crouch had forgotten how much Julia enjoyed complaining.  
  
The room was filled with an awkward silence for a few moments, with Crouch listening closely for the sound of the back door opening and Mr. And Mrs. Fudge peering around at the living rooms large pictures. Crouch noticed that Mrs. Fudge's eyes lingered on a picture of his son, the only one he'd allowed his wife to leave out after Barty's arrest, and he grimaced as her mouth tightened and eyes narrowed. Nicole Longbottom had been one of her best friends in school, and Crouch shuddered as he wondered how she would react if she discovered that the object of her despise was just outside.  
  
Fudge seemed to have noticed where his wife's eyes were directed, and he quickly cleared his throat. "I had forgotten what a nice house you have Barty, it's been so long since my last visit. It just looks as though things might get a bit... lonely, what with you living by yourself now."  
  
"Well, Winky's still here, isn't she?" Crouch said, suppressing a scowl. His tone clearly hinted that he had no desire to talk about the residents of his home, but Fudge, who either didn't care that his host was becoming uncomfortable or simply hadn't noticed, laughed aloud.  
  
"Come off it Barty! I mean to say, house-elves are wonderful for work- it's practically all they know, but it's not as though you could actually have a conversation with one." Fudge laughed again and his wife joined him. Neither seemed to realize that they were the only ones who had found anything amusing about the idea of having a house-elf as one's only companion.  
  
As their laughter subsided, Mrs. Fudge suddenly became very serious and said, "Really though Barty, have you ever considered meeting someone new now that Secilia's passed on? I mean, I realize that you're older now, but I've a friend, Angelina, who I'm sure would love to meet you..."  
  
Crouch wasn't able to hide his annoyance any longer. "I'm sure you had good intentions, Julia," he hissed through his teeth. "But if the only reason you came was to convince me to remarry, you've wasted your time." A fury was building up inside of him at the insolence of this woman, inviting herself into his home and casually asking if he was thinking of replacing his deceased wife, as though she were simply an object of glass or porcelain that had broken and was to be instantly forgotten as soon as another took it's place.  
  
Mrs. Fudge looked visibly affronted, and she said stiffly, "It was merely a suggestion."  
  
Fudge could feel the tension between his wife and fellow Ministry member, and tried cheerfully to turn the conversation in another direction. "Come now Julia, this is a Christmas visit, we needn't talk about such somber things! Say Barty, have you heard any news about the Quidditch World Cup? Ireland versus Bulgaria, it's sure to be quite an exciting match."  
  
"You know I don't follow quidditch, Cornelius."  
  
"Well, I know you've never been a fan of any sport, Barty, but what with Ludo Bagman bouncing around the office nowadays, I just thought..." Crouch had to suppress a sigh. He wasn't the least bit interested in quidditch, but he let Fudge talk on, nodding every once in a while to make the Minister think he was listening.  
  
***** Outside, meanwhile, Barty was being his usual self, trying to make things as difficult as possible for his father's poor house- elf. The twenty minutes that Mr. Crouch had allowed were up, but Barty refused to go back inside. He was shivering in the cold December air, as the thin material of the Invisibility Cloak offered little protection against the biting frost, but he wasn't ready to go inside just yet. There was no guarantee that his father would ever allow him outside again, and escape had been the one thing on Barty's mind since he'd stepped out of the house. The Crouches had no neighbors who lived within seeing distance, so being caught right away wasn't something he was concerned about, but with the entire wizarding world still peeking out of the corners of their eyes for Death Eaters, it wasn't as though he could simply take the Knight Bus to Albania. Barty looked up at the house. Something had clearly distracted his father or he would have been dragged inside the very second that the twenty minutes had passed.  
  
Winky wasn't a big concern either. House-elves don't deal with cold very well, and with merely her tea towel for protection, poor Winky was slowly turning the same shade of gray as the dismal winter sky. With luck, the elf's freezing limbs would distract her long enough for him to slip away.  
  
He suddenly felt her tug on the hem of his robes, her teeth chattering in the bitter cold. "M-master Barty, we is to be going in- inside now." She sneezed and began to pull him forward. Barty followed her, planning on waiting until they were nearer to the house to make his escape. Winky looked back over her shoulder every few minutes as though to check that he was still following. This didn't do her very much good though, as Barty was still under the Invisibility Cloak.  
  
As they neared the house, Barty prepared himself to slip away. He would have to move fast. Winky wasn't very quick on her short legs, but she would surely tell his father before attempting to catch him herself...  
  
They both stopped in the same instant. Winky and her charge both stood stock-still, listening to the voices carrying on the air from inside the house. They could hear Fudge's loud, cheerful voice carrying on about the Quidditch World Cup.  
  
"... I've heard good things about the Bulgarian team, Barty. Got a very fine seeker, I'm told. I myself have a bit of money on them to win. Perhaps you'd also like to..."  
  
Mr. Crouch seemed to know what Fudge was about to say, and he answered the question before it was asked. "I don't gamble Cornelius, you know that."  
  
"Well yes, of course I know..." Fudge sounded more than slightly embarrassed.  
  
As the Minister continued, Barty looked down at Winky. She was standing with her large ears quivering, listening to every word that was being said inside of the house. He saw his chance, and took it.  
  
Slipping quietly away, Barty was very glad that there was no snow on the ground to leave footprints and make him easy to track. Instead, it was dry and frozen, leaving no signs of where he'd been.  
  
The Crouches had no fence around their yard, a good thing for Barty. Winky would have surely heard him if he'd had to climb a fence to escape.  
  
At that moment, the house-elf took her eyes off of her master's house, and, suddenly remembering her charge, called out softly, "Master Barty?" When there was no answer, the elf felt her stomach begin to tie into knots. "Master Barty, where is you at?" She tried again, her tiny voice cracking on the last word. When there was no answer, she panicked, running towards the house as fast as her small legs could take her.  
  
Meanwhile, Barty was slumped against a large tree still within seeing distance of his father's house. All the years of being cooped up inside had weakened his muscles, and he'd become winded after the first few meters of running.  
  
He'd never thought about exactly where he was escaping to, either. Of course Albania would be his final destination, but he would have to stay somewhere for at least that one night. It wasn't as though he, a wanted man, could just hop on the Knight Bus. Barty looked around him. He could only see a few houses scattered around, most of them large manor houses like his own. He sat down to think for a moment, but nothing came to him until he saw a large, familiar looking house off in the distance. *The Malfoys! *  
  
Barty remembered vividly how his parents had always disliked living so near the Malfoy family. Still, the Malfoys were an old, rich pureblood family not unlike themselves, so it stood to reason that they would live in the same area of large, richly furnished wizarding houses. From a very young age, Barty could remember his parents dragging him over to Malfoy Manor nearly every month to attend Narcissa's dinner parties and the like. His parents had both insisted that it was the neighborly thing to do, but as a young child, Barty had seen his father watching Lucius Malfoy very closely with a suspicious look in his eyes, and wondered if that was also the neighborly thing to do.  
  
Now, Barty began to run for the large manor in the distance, praying that Lucius Malfoy would help out a fellow Death Eater. He hesitated though.  
  
Lucius had obviously never made any attempt to search for his master. From what Barty had read in the newspapers, he had talked his way out of Azkaban by saying that Lord Voldemort had controlled him with the Imperius Curse. If Lucius had denied his support of Voldemort, it surely meant that he'd turned to the Ministry and had no intention of helping his Lord (or any fellow Death Eaters who might happen turn up on his doorstep.)  
  
Barty turned around, nodding to himself in firm resolution. Lucius would not help him. He began to hurry in another direction; towards a muggle road that he knew was located just out of seeing distance. Everyone in the wizarding world knew his face, but a muggle wouldn't have looked twice at him.  
  
Being a Death Eater, Barty hated the idea of associating with muggles, but if he could just make it to Albania...  
  
  
  
At that same moment, Winky burst into the living room where Mr. Crouch and his unexpected guests were sitting. Mr. And Mrs. Fudge simply stared in shocked surprise at the shivering, distressed elf, but Crouch, who had realized immediately that Winky's charge was not with her, stood up, his face paling. "What is the meaning of this Winky?" he had to work hard to keep his voice from shaking. "I believe I gave you specific orders you were to be carrying out."  
  
"M-master, you is needing to come outside, quickly!" she cast a glance at the Fudges, too frightened to say more.  
  
The Minister seemed to have realized that it would be a very good idea for their visit to end, and quickly, because he stood up, saying awkwardly, "Well Barty, I suppose you've got something to attend to, so..." he gave a loud cough. "Perhaps it would be best if we ended our visit later. Tomorrow, perhaps?"  
  
"What? Oh... yes, tomorrow. You can show yourselves to the door, can't you? I'm afraid I really must hurry... thank you for coming, both of you." Even in a state of panic no one could ever say that Barty Crouch Sr. had forgotten his manners.  
  
"Goodbye then." Fudge said awkwardly, and pulled his startled wife towards the front doors with him.  
  
As soon as they were gone, Crouch bolted outside. Knowing what he would find, he peered desperately around the yard, and cursed when his worst suspicions were confirmed. He whipped around, glaring daggers at his shaking elf. "You were supposed to be watching him, Winky!"  
  
"Master, Winky is doing her best! I-"  
  
"You weren't watching him carefully enough!" the elf opened her mouth to speak, but her master cut her off. "If you had been paying attention you could have stopped him with your own magic! I've told you several times you have license to use it on him!" He turned toward the empty yard again, too furious with his servant to say any more. That damned elf! This was all her fault. First she'd begged him to let Barty outside, and then neglected the simple task he had given her. Still, his son didn't have a wand with him, and there was, perhaps, one spell that might find him...  
  
  
  
Barty Jr. could now see the road in the distance. As a child, he had been forbidden to go near it, which of course meant that he had snuck out numerous times simply for the sake of disobeying his father's orders. As he approached his destination, he saw that something was taking place on the little stretch of road. A long line of muggle cars was backed up behind two other cars that had obviously collided. Barty scoffed at the stupidity of muggles. They couldn't even control their own machines!  
  
Muggles were standing outside of their cars, waving their fists at a group of official-looking men and women who were speaking with three bruised men, the owners of the two vehicles.  
  
"C'mon, get going!"  
  
"We've got places to be!"  
  
"Can't you at least move the damn things so the rest of us can get through?"  
  
Barty was now standing by the side of the road, although he was still wearing the Invisibility Cloak and none of the people could see him. He peered about at all of the cars, looking for someone who might be willing to give a poor stranger a ride. His eyes fell on a large, shining new car with four people in it. One of them was a large man who was grumbling to the woman next to him. The man's head was protruding from the open window of his car, and Barty could hear what he was saying.  
  
"- just because some idiots can't drive, the rest of us suffer. I tell you Petunia, if I was running this country, you can bet I'd see to it that these people never put foot to a gas pedal again!"  
  
In the back, an enormous boy who nearly took up two seats was shoving a much smaller, rather scrawny looking boy against the door. "Move over! I want more room!"  
  
"Most people would have enough room to stretch their legs out in the space you're sitting in!" The scrawny boy shot back. He moved over as far as he could though, and began looking out the window, green eyes peering up momentarily at the dismal sky. His messy black hair was covering his forehead, so Barty didn't recognize him to be Harry Potter, his master's "downfall."  
  
Barty turned his eyes from the scene on the road and headed for a small cluster of trees nearby, working out a plan in his head as he went. Under cover of the trees he would remove the Invisibility Cloak, then return to the road and find a muggle to drive him away. It didn't really matter where, he thought. *Once I'm far enough from Father, I can work my way to Albania in safety. And then..." he smiled to himself, pulling the Cloak off and tucking it under his arm. He tried to roll the bundle of cloth up as tightly as possible, to hide the fact that it was not made of ordinary material.  
  
"Ichnos!" Crouch whispered, holding his wand so that the tip was touching the spot of ground where Winky and Barty Jr. had last been standing. Immediately, two sets of footprints appeared where before there had been only solid, frozen earth. He breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't been sure if the Tracking Spell would work, or if the trail his son had left would be too old. It didn't take very long for a trail to wear away under the spell, so he would have to hurry. One of the trails, tiny footprints that led up to the house, obviously belonged to Winky, but someone much larger, Barty Jr, made the other.  
  
Crouch began to follow his son's trail, hurrying along as quickly as he could. When he reached the spot where Barty had started towards Lucius Malfoy's house but then turned back again, he could tell exactly what his son had been thinking. He ran on, his eyes never leaving the tracks he was following. He knew perfectly well what Barty Jr. intended to do, and his breath caught in his throat as he thought about it. It would be all his fault. All his fault if Voldemort rose again, helped along by Barty.  
  
Nearing the road he peered around, fearing that he was too late. At that moment he saw something move in the trees, and his son stepped out. They stared at each other for a moment. Barty Jr. had obviously not expected his father to find him so quickly, and likewise Mr. Crouch had not expected Barty to be bold enough to take off the Invisibility Cloak.  
  
Barty darted away suddenly, abandoning his plan to find a ride with the muggles. He couldn't go back to be imprisoned again! His father ran after him, cursing Winky again for causing the disaster.  
  
Only the fact that Barty hadn't left the house in over a decade saved his father. Crouch was much older of course, and he had never been in top physical condition, even in his younger days, but walking around the Ministry building every day was still better exercise than being kept indoors for almost thirteen years.  
  
He caught up with his son, who was desperately struggling to put the Invisibility Cloak back on, and pulled out his wand. "Stupefy!"  
  
Barty froze instantly and toppled onto the frozen ground, unconscious. Breathing hard, his father pulled the Invisibility Cloak over his head, once more shielding him from view. The elder Crouch stopped for a moment, his heart beating from both the gut-wrenching fear he'd had in his stomach throughout the entire ordeal, and the chase that had followed.  
  
Heart still fluttering, he felt about on the ground for a moment before finding the limp, unconscious form of his son, and dragged the boy -although Barty was now in his thirties, Crouch still thought of him as a child- all the way back to the house.  
  
Winky was waiting for them, hopping anxiously up and down with her tiny hands over her mouth. Crouch shot a venomous look in her direction, which stated quite clearly: *You'll be dealt with later, elf. *  
  
He then stormed past her and up the stairs, depositing a still- invisible Barty Jr. onto the bed in his room. Before leaving, however, he turned around and looked at the supposedly empty spot on the mattress again.  
  
It struck him then that when he'd encountered Barty by the road, his son had been visible. He'd somehow managed to take the Cloak off despite the Imperius Curse his father had placed on him. For a moment Crouch felt his blood run cold. Could Barty be throwing off the curse already? He had never considered how the boy would be controlled when he began deflecting his father's enchantments entirely.  
  
Of course... the spell's caster * had* been rather distracted at the time of Barty's escape. *And come to think of it, * Crouch said to himself. * My wand was lying on the table beside me and not in my hand. Yes, perhaps that's it. I simply lost control of the curse for a moment. * He nodded his head decisively, leaving his son's room and heading down the stairs.  
  
When he passed by Winky, who was carrying a basket of laundry nearly twice her size, the elf cringed as though waiting for her master to reach out and strike her. Crouch's anger had not waned at all, and he felt like doing just that. Instead he held his tongue. The house-elf would not get away without being punished, of course, but he still depended on her to watch over Barty while he was away. For the moment, dismissing her entirely was out of the question.  
  
Still, if there was one more mistake on her part...  
  
  
  
A/N: I know that was a crappy ending for this chapter, but I really wanted to get started on the events at the World Cup. Review, my little readers, review! 


	5. To the World Cup

A/N: Went to the CoS movie the day it came out. Last year I was a bit disappointed with SS, but this one was great! Thanks to NM for reviewing, and don't worry, I'll get this up on Fiction Alley (eventually).  
  
Disclaimer: All of these characters belong to J.K. Rowling with the exception of Jacob Dias. (Who's really only mentioned in this chapter.)  
  
  
  
Chapter 5: To the World Cup  
  
  
  
"Oh, come now Barty! It'll be fun!" Even when Ludo Bagman was practically on his hands and knees begging, he still wore his trademark grin.  
  
"Ludo, I *will not* be attending the World Cup, as I've told you every day for the past week. I have other commitments, and quidditch is not one of-"  
  
"But Barty, I told the Bulgarians that we'd have someone there to translate!" Ludo blustered, interrupting him. "I know you weren't planning on coming, but Jacob Dias is the only other Bulgarian- speaking person we know of, and he's tied up in his work at St. Mungo's!" Bagman suddenly gave him a mischievous smile and winked. "Besides, it'll give you a good excuse to get in a few extra hours on the job, eh?" Ludo loved nothing more than to joke about Crouch's dedication to his career.  
  
Cornelius Fudge, who had been standing unnoticed in the doorway, spoke up. "Ludo's right Barty, we're counting on you to be there. After all, you *are* head of the Department of-"  
  
"I know perfectly well what department I lead and my job, Minister." Crouch said stiffly. "I simply think that it was rather inconsiderate of you not to have informed me that I was expected to attend until now." He grabbed his cloak from a nearby rack and turned to leave. "If you will excuse me, I have some paperwork to complete at home."  
  
Ludo Bagman seemed to think it very amusing that Crouch was leaving work only to do more work. "Well in that case I'll be sure to come and visit you tonight! Wouldn't want to miss out on any of the excitement!" He laughed for a moment, and Crouch saw, to his disgust, that Fudge was biting his lip to keep from joining in.  
  
Bagman finally cleared his throat, still grinning from ear to ear, and said in a somewhat more serious tone, "Really though Barty, can we count on you to come?"  
  
Crouch was becoming extremely fed-up with his inexplicably cheerful colleague, and simply said, "It would not appear that I have a choice Ludo." He then donned his cloak, which was a dreary black (matching his stern personality, Bagman often oh-so-subtly noted,) and left as quickly as possible.  
  
As soon as he had exited the building, a new worry awoke in him. He would surely be needed for two or three days at the World Cup, and leaving Barty alone with Winky for such a long period of time was simply out of the question. Crouch rubbed his temples, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He had been working harder than usual as of late, and was quite deprived of sleep. Deciding that all he needed was a bit of rest and some time to think it over, he disapparated for home.  
  
Upon arriving at the house, Mr. Crouch collapsed on the couch in the spacious living room. He immediately heard Winky's soft footsteps coming down the hallway towards him. The elf entered the room cautiously, reading the familiar signs that her master was not in one of his better moods. She had been exceptionally careful lately, so as not to arouse Mr. Crouch's anger after Barty Jr.'s near escape months before.  
  
With her eyes fixed firmly on the floor, Winky said in her squeaky voice, "Master?" Crouch simply grunted to let her know he'd heard, and she continued. "Master, can Winky be getting something for you?"  
  
Mr. Crouch disregarded his house-elf's question and asked after his son as he did every day upon arriving home. "Where is he Winky?"  
  
"In his room Master. He isn't coming out all day. Winky is becoming very about him." The elf began to speed up as she spoke, and it was obvious that she had been waiting to tell him this for quite some time. "Master, he is hardly eating any of his food when Winky brings it to his bedroom. Master Barty is making himself quite sick if he isn't eating!"  
  
It was true, Crouch realized. Barty had been looking even thinner and gaunter in the past few weeks than he had since the day he'd been taken from Azkaban. Again he remembered the World Cup, but inwardly scolded himself for even thinking about-  
  
But what if it was the only way? It wasn't as though he could simply back out and not attend, not now that he had told them he would be there. And now with Barty becoming more and more ill... perhaps it would keep the boy in good health, for a time. Crouch hated to admit it to himself, but he knew he would feel horribly guilty if his son grew sick again. Really though, if it was all planned out carefully... if it was for the shortest amount of time possible. there was really no reason why it shouldn't work.  
  
"Master? Is you not feeling well?" Crouch snapped out of his thoughtful state, realizing that he had been staring at the ground for some time now. He looked at Winky, sizing her up for a moment. Then, making an inward resolution, he abruptly stood and said to the elf, "Winky, fetch me a cup of tea. I have plans to make."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Nearly two weeks later, all of the preparations were complete. They would leave the next morning and arrive at the field before the throngs of spectators, in time for Mr. Crouch to greet both the Bulgarian and Irish teams. Winky would set up the tent where Barty Jr. would stay while his father worked, and they would both remain inside of it before and after the game.  
  
The tent had been borrowed, as none of them had ever been camping before. Crouch simply couldn't understand what was so wonderful about sleeping on a lumpy bed in a tent when one had a perfectly good bed at home, minus the bumps in the mattress.  
  
He had decided that a portkey would be the best form of transportation. If he removed the Imperius Curse long enough for Barty Jr. to apparate to the quidditch field, there would be nothing stopping him from simply escaping by heading somewhere else. So the evening before their departure, Crouch found an old lampshade in the corner of the closet upstairs, and - with some difficulty - changed it into a portkey. He left it lying in the center of the living room floor, careful not to touch it lest he should be transported to the quidditch pitch a day early.  
  
Lying in bed that night, Crouch found it extremely difficult to keep his mind from all that could go wrong the next day.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Early the next morning, Barty Jr. was shaken awake by Winky. He opened his eyes slowly, half expecting the sun's bright morning rays to pierce them as they had every morning for years. He had never been a morning person, and was quite unaccustomed to rising before the sun was up.  
  
Chancing a peek out the window however, he saw that the sky was still sprinkled with stars. The only evidence that it was early morning instead of late night was a thin streak of reddish-gold light casting a rosy glow over the eastern horizon.  
  
Barty could hear his father downstairs, shuffling papers and rummaging through drawers, trying to finish his work for the office before their departure. Winky, who had left the room after waking him, burst through the door. She was now carrying a bundle of clothes so large that she hadn't been able to carry them all in her arms; instead, she had draped some of them over her head so that she couldn't see where she was going and kept slamming into doors and walls.  
  
Dumping her burden on the bed, she tugged on the sleeve of Barty's nightshirt to get his attention. "Master Barty," she squeaked. "Master Barty, come away from the window! Your father is telling you this many times, Winky knows! If someone outside is looking in and seeing you there..."  
  
Barty snorted. The closest house to theirs was Malfoy Manor, barely visible from such a distance. Visits to the Crouch household were rare, especially since Mrs. Fudge had informed everyone of the less-than-warm welcome she and her husband had received that winter. All in all, the chances of Barty being spotted in the window were second to none.  
  
Winky snatched up some clothes from the pile and handed them to her charge. "You is getting dressed quickly, Master Barty. Winky is letting you sleep fifteen minutes past the time your father is saying to wake you." She lowered her voice when she said the last bit, as though speaking of some terrible, unforgivable sin.  
  
Barty snatched the robes from Winky's hands, barely acknowledging the house-elf. He had been in a foul mood for the last few days, although by all means he should have been thrilled to be leaving the house at last. Ever since his father had decided to bring him along to the World Cup, Crouch had been shooting glances at him, clearly saying: "Well, boy? Aren't you going to thank me?" Barty, of course, had no intention of thanking his jailer for allowing him this small bit of involvement in the world. After all, it didn't make him any less a prisoner.  
  
Walking to his closet, Barty nearly tripped over Winky, who had been hastily making the bed while looking over her shoulder, as though expecting to see Mr. Crouch standing there.  
  
Barty stumbled and knocked his head against the corner of his dresser, and the pain quickly transformed his stormy mood to a fit of rage. Mr. Crouch rarely struck his servant, but Barty hadn't inherited his father's strong self-control. Picking the squealing elf up by her tea-towel garment, he punted her straight through the door and into the hallway, where she jumped to her feet and began frantically apologizing.  
  
Barty slammed the door in the house-elf's face and continued getting dressed, now muttering darkly to himself. "Stupid elf... always underfoot... that'll teach her..."  
  
Moments later, Mr. Crouch's footsteps came pounding up the stairs. He had heard his elf hitting the floor, followed by her frantic apologies, and put two-and-two together. He stormed into the room, shooting his son an accusing glare before getting straight to the point. "It's not your place to punish *my* servants, boy!" He wasn't sure exactly why Barty's treatment of the elf made him so angry, he himself had never exactly acted kindly towards her. Still, it was the principle of the matter...  
  
Barty, who had returned to the window and was again gazing out of it, only gave his father a passing glance, as though surveying someone far below him who simply wasn't worth his time. "She's mine too, and she got in my way. If I feel like punishing her, I will."  
  
"She's *not* yours!" he hissed. "*You* are merely a guest in my home, here by my invitation!"  
  
Barty clenched his fists, wishing that he had a wand in one of them. He opened his mouth to say something, but his father cut him off as he continued. "Ungrateful boy!" he spat. "You didn't *deserve* to be given a place to live after what you did; you didn't *deserve* to be free of that prison rock, but I risked myself to bring you home anyway!"  
  
Barty knew from experience that it would do him no good to say anything. His father brought this point up with every argument they had, as though he thought his son should feel guilty for bringing such danger upon the man who was now his only living relative.  
  
But Barty Jr. felt no remorse for any of his crimes. Not for the destruction of the Longbottom family or for that of his own. It had saddened him to learn of his mother's death, but he felt no such regret for his father's plight. It would have made things much easier if he had felt anything but hatred for Barty Sr., but any feelings along that line were overrun by the memory of his father's disowning him in the courtroom the day of his trial.  
  
So instead of shooting a nasty comment back, Barty simply swept past his father without giving him a second glance. He stormed down the stairs so loudly that he barely heard his father yell after him. "You wait down there, boy and don't you touch that Portkey!" Remembering the original reason for their fight, he added: "And stay away from Winky as well!" Of course, there was really no need for him to remind Barty Jr. not to take the Portkey, as the living room door had been sealed by magic.  
  
Snatching up the Invisibility Cloak from the pile of clothes on the bed, Crouch looked at the clock. It was nearly seven, and the small streaks of reddish-gold light outside had nearly filled the sky. Tucking the Cloak under one arm, he went downstairs to find his son in the kitchen with Winky eating a plate of toast.  
  
Barty didn't look up when his father entered, evidence that he was still brooding on their argument upstairs. Crouch tossed the Invisibility Cloak at him, nearly knocking the plate from his hands. "Put that on and hurry up." He snapped. "We're leaving."  
  
He went into the living room and waited until he heard Barty's footsteps coming down the hall, with Winky at his heels. When they came in, only the house-elf could be seen, so Crouch knew Barty had put on the Cloak as he had ordered.  
  
"Well then," he said, rising from the couch. "Let's go. Winky are you sure you have all of the bags?"  
  
The elf nodded vigorously, holding out a handful of tiny luggage - magically shrunken of course -, which she then tucked safely into a pocket she herself had sewn into her tea towel. "Good." Her master nodded his approval. "We'll be on our way then. Winky, grab his hand so that he doesn't try to get away." The house-elf instantly obeyed. There was never any question as to who "he" was.  
  
Once Winky had hold of Barty's hand, they moved over to their makeshift Portkey and stooped down. Mr. Crouch held his hand out over the lampshade, motioning for both his son and servant to do the same. "Right then," he said. "On three. One... two... three!"  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Barty Jr. felt his feet hit solid ground, and heard his father and Winky do the same. He looked over at them and saw that Winky, -who was still clutching his hand- was covering her eyes with her other hand, only peeking between her fingers when she was sure there was solid ground beneath her feet. The house-elf always acted this way when she traveled by Portkey. The sensation reminded her too much of flying, which, of course, reminded her of her worst fear- heights.  
  
Mr. Crouch was dusting himself off even though only his feet had hit the ground upon arriving, and not a speck of dirt could be seen on his crisp, clean muggle suit. He straightened himself up and looked to Winky, who appeared to be clutching a handful of air. "You've still got him then?" Without waiting for the elf's reply he turned and looked towards the campsite in the distance, where smoke was rising from the fires of a few other spectators who had decided to come early. "Good. Winky, you'll get under the Cloak with him until we're away from the muggles."  
  
The house-elf grabbed a corner of the Cloak, which was long enough that it dragged on the ground when Barty wore it, and stepped underneath, vanishing instantly. They headed off towards the campsite, with Barty constantly stepping on poor Winky, who was trying to stay under the Invisibility Cloak and out of the way of her charge's feet at the same time.  
  
They approached a rather old, wrinkled muggle man who simply gave them a map and pointed out their campsite before turning to leave. Just then, Barty stepped down hard on Winky's considerably smaller foot, and this time the elf couldn't suppress a squeal of pain.  
  
The old muggle whipped around, his eyes widening. "What was that?" He was peering at an area dangerously close to where Barty and the house-elf were standing.  
  
Thinking quickly, Mr. Crouch loudly cleared his throat and jerked his head toward the woods nearby. "I suppose it must have been some kind of animal. Well, we- er, I'd best be going." He set off to the site, praying that his son and house-elf were following. He heard the old man muttering to himself behind them.  
  
"Animal... never heard an animal what makes a noise like that... 's one of them aliens, that's what it is."  
  
Crouch would have laughed at him if he hadn't been occupied with breathing a sigh of relief. That had been too close. Upon reaching the campsite, his heart sunk a bit more. Two days out here! The place would surely be loud once the hoards of quidditch spectators arrived. Certainly, the walls of their tent were magical, keeping out most sound, but even from this distance he would probably be able to hear the sounds from that horrible quidditch match.  
  
He peered around at the few other tents around them. All had wizarding families standing around them, with not a muggle in sight. "You may come out now, Winky." He said. The elf -a bit bruised from her many encounters with Barty Jr.'s feet- gratefully stepped out from under the Invisibility Cloak.  
  
He waved an impatient hand towards the grassy spot where the tent would be set up. "Well, elf? Go to it!"  
  
While Winky was fumbling with the tent, a few wizards passed, among them a few who recognized and greeted him.  
  
Barty Jr. put on a high-pitched voice in mocking imitation of them. "Hello Mr. Crouch... good day Mr. Crouch," then, applying his own twist to the words of an old witch who had passed by: "My, what a perfectly hideous suit that is!"  
  
Crouch scowled at the seemingly empty spot where his son stood, offering up a silent prayer that the boy wouldn't cause too much trouble the next day.  
  
  
  
A/N: Not a whole lot of action in that chapter, but I hope you liked it. As always, r/r. 


	6. At the World Cup

A/N: Finally! I'm updating! Time on vacation, a small dose of writer's block, and simple laziness have kept me from sitting down and getting this chapter finished, but I'm back now! I hope a long chapter will make up for it!  
  
Disclaimer: Most of the characters in this chapter belong to J.K. Rowling; I'll let you pick them out from mine by yourself. May it also be noted that parts of the dialogue in this chapter come from GoF, and therefore they, too, belong to J.K.  
  
  
  
Chapter Six: At the World Cup  
  
  
  
"Uumph!" Mr. Crouch fell to the ground with a thud.  
  
He had been standing outside of the tent wearing his crisp, neatly ironed muggle suit and drinking a cup of coffee as he watched the World Cup spectators arrive when something struck the back of his legs hard, knocking him flat on his back.  
  
With coffee dripping from his face and his black suit now sporting spots of dirt, he twisted his head around and spotted his assailant, a tiny boy riding a toy broomstick. The little boy turned around and waved at him, giggling, but his face fell when a stern-faced young woman, presumably his mother, charged past Mr. Crouch and pulled him straight off the broom.  
  
Crouch watched the boy jumping for the broomstick, which his mother was now holding high above his head. When they had both disappeared into a flashy, neon-orange tent, he ducked back inside of his own, thinking of days past when he and his wife had been forced to chase down Barty Jr. and drag him inside, kicking and screaming.  
  
A smile began at the corners of his mouth as he remembered one particular incident: Barty had been barely three years old, and had come to the conclusion that if he was going to be forced to suffer the indignity of taking a bath, he should be paid for it. He stood in the middle of the kitchen with his little arms crossed, refusing to set foot in the bathroom until his demands were met. Mr. Crouch finally lost his temper with the boy and roughly dragged his rouge son upstairs to bathe him. Halfway up the steps, the boy slipped nimbly out of his grasp and promptly dashed outside to roll about in every patch of mud he could find in their vast garden. A long chase followed and Mrs. Crouch arrived home that night to find her struggling, muddy son slung over the shoulder of her equally muddy husband. That night it took the entire household, Winky included, to bathe a kicking, screaming Barty. When the ordeal was finished and the perpetrator was locked safely away in his room, Mr. Crouch and his wife had a long, heated debate over how their son was to be punished. Mrs. Crouch had not been able to shake off the image of her stern, proper husband wrestling with his son in the mud, and tears of laughter had trickled down her cheeks throughout the entire discussion. She eventually won out, saying that Barty Jr. was simply, "Too adorable to punish."  
  
"Are you listening to me?!"  
  
Mr. Crouch snapped abruptly back to the present, and realized that his son had been standing in front of him for some time now. The dreamy smile that had been playing at the corners of his mouth disappeared as quickly as it had come. "What?" he barked, inwardly chiding himself for allowing his mind to wander.  
  
Barty Jr. scowled at his father. "When does the game begin?" he asked, emphasizing each word. "Perhaps you need me to repeat the question more slowly, as you didn't seem to comprehend it the first dozen times I asked-"  
  
"I was thinking." His father snapped. "Try it sometime, I'm sure you'll find it most useful!" He brushed past Barty, not intending to speak with his son any more than was absolutely necessary, but as an afterthought he added: "You and Winky leave for the field at six o' clock."  
  
"You're not coming with us?" Barty Jr. blurted. His father only snorted dismissively, as though the idea of a distinguished man like himself attending a barbaric event like Quidditch was absolutely unthinkable.  
  
"I have far more important matters to contend with, and-" his eyes widened suddenly as he realized that Barty was visible. "What are you doing without the Cloak on?" Grabbing his thirty-year-old son by the arm as though he were no more than five, he ran with him to the back room of the tent, where the Invisibility Cloak lay draped over a rather moldy looking, shabbily upholstered chair.  
  
Winky sat in a similar chair nearby, carefully folding the sheets that her masters had slept on the night before. (She herself had been contented to reside on the couch.)  
  
The house-elf looked up cheerfully when both Crouches entered, and she set down the stack of blankets for a moment to bow to them. "Is Winky getting anything for you, Masters?"  
  
Maintaining his death grip on Barty's arm, Crouch narrowed his eyes at the elf, whose bright smile faltered and died upon seeing the look on her master's face. "Winky," Crouch said in a low voice, "I realize that you are by no means under-worked..." he glanced at the house-elf, as though waiting for her to confirm his statement.  
  
"N-no." the nervous elf stuttered. "Winky is working very hard, Master."  
  
"...and I realize that I rely on you to do a number of different jobs..."  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
"However," Upon saying that word Crouch's voice lost its soft tone. "I seem to remember giving you one job in particular, a job that you were expected to perform for many years..." he glanced again at Winky as though waiting for her to figure it out on her own, but she was not a particularly complex creature, and her master was speaking in riddles.  
  
Crouch cleared his throat loudly, jerking his head in the direction of the shabby chair with the silvery garment draped over it. Winky turned around and gave a tiny groan as she recalled her task. Hopping from her own chair to the one that held the Invisibility Cloak, she grabbed it and began trying to force it over Barty Jr.'s head, as though it would make up for her absentmindedness. "I is sorry Master! Winky is forgetting! So much is going on-"  
  
She finished forcing Barty into the Cloak and jumped to the ground, quailing under Mr. Crouch's furious gaze. She winced as he opened his mouth, waiting for the rebuff that was coming. "Elf," said her master, in the same quiet, dangerous voice as before, "Remind me: just how many years have I expected you to see that Barty wore the Cloak *at all times?*"  
  
Not realizing that the question was rhetorical, Winky began to count slowly on her fingers. She had just reached four when Crouch continued. "Almost twelve years."  
  
At this, Barty Jr. looked up although no one could see him. Had it really been that long? "Twelve years you've had that job, Elf!" Mr. Crouch maintained. "Twelve years, and *now* when we're surrounded by other wizards and witches on all sides, when it was *most crucial* that he," he jerked his finger at the spot where Barty stood, "remained hidden; *now* you've forgotten?"  
  
The house-elf cowered before him, whimpering. She could have spoken up; told him that she hadn't been reminded to maintain her job while they were at the World Cup, but she knew her master all too well, and he simply did not accept excuses. Besides, "House-elves isn't needing remindings," she whispered to herself.  
  
Suddenly, all three of them turned as one toward the door leading out into the narrow hallway of the tent. Footsteps were making their way quickly towards the room where they stood, and a moment later Ludo Bagman burst in. He gave Winky and Crouch his usual jovial grin and shifted about excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.  
  
"Oh," he said upon seeing Winky still cowering before her master, "Did I interrupt something...?"  
  
Crouch noticed that Ludo didn't sound a bit sorry for bursting in uninvited; but after all, there was no way that the Head of the Magical Games and Sports department could ever have realized what he had almost walked in on. "It's nothing." He said curtly. "Winky wasn't following my orders, so I-"  
  
"Winky?" Bagman said, still grinning. "Disobeying you? That'd be a first, Barty! I've never met an elf as loyal as her; she'd jump straight off Hogwarts' highest tower if you told her to-"  
  
Crouch noticed that Winky was now beaming and blushing deeply at Bagman's comments, and this infuriated him. She was supposed to be punished, not complimented! "Ludo, is there a reason you're here?" he barked, now visibly angry.  
  
"Hmm? Oh yes, of course! Now what was it...?"  
  
Crouch gave an exasperated sigh. Ludo was a gold mine of information if you wanted to know about anything pertaining to Quidditch, but when asked a question about something of any real importance his mind went suspiciously blank.  
  
Growing impatient, Crouch began to drum his fingers on one of the tattered old chairs. "For heaven's sake, Ludo! Am I needed to translate for the Bulgarians!?" He snapped.  
  
A grin spread over Bagman's boyish features. "That was it!" He said, snapping his fingers.  
  
"Good. I'd best be off then." Crouch was halfway out the door when he heard Ludo chuckling behind him.  
  
"Er... Barty, you might want to change clothes first."  
  
Looking down at himself, Crouch realized that his muggle suit was still splattered with coffee, dirt, and grass stains. Shooting Bagman a reproachful glance and inwardly cursing the little boy and his toy broomstick, he headed back into his temporary bedroom.  
  
When he came out he was wearing a new suit that was just as neat and clean as the first had once been, with the exception that it was charcoal-grey instead of black. When he saw that Bagman was still standing there, he frowned. "Ludo, don't you have someplace to be? You're the Head of Magical Games and Sports, I think you should be preparing for tonight."  
  
Bagman waved his hand dismissively "Oh, that'll take care of itself. All I've got to do is show up when the game begins and I'm set! What a job, eh? But between you and me," he said, a sly smile suddenly crossing his face, "I've been doing a bit of extra...er, *work* this morning. Now Barty, I know that gambling isn't one of your preferred pastimes, but no one would have to know if- wait Barty, just hear me out...!"  
  
Crouch was already out the door. Bagman sighed. "Ah, well, it was worth a try." He pulled a rather long list of names from his pocket, and crossed *Barty Crouch* off of it. Navigating the list with his finger, he found the next name down and smiled. "The Weasleys! Maybe Arthur will venture to put a few galleons down this year, without Molly breathing down his neck." He ducked out of the tent, chuckling to himself.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
An hour later, Crouch walked away from the cluster of oddly decorated Bulgarian tents, rubbing his temples and truly wishing that he had stayed home. The moment he'd approached the team, they had bombarded him with requests and complaints. There were not enough seats, they needed more room to practice, the food was bad... these were only the beginning of a long list that Mr. Crouch had memorized before beating a hasty retreat, afraid that they might think up more if he lingered too long.  
  
Looking back over his shoulder, Crouch suddenly collided with a small, dark man who was sprinting in the opposite direction. He managed to keep his balance, but the other man toppled over backwards. Leaning down to help him up, Crouch had to stop himself from giving an exasperated groan. He recognized the man; it was Ali Bashir, a foreign man who had been vexing the Ministry for years with his pleas for them to legalize flying carpets in Britain.  
  
Bashir brushed Crouch's hand away and stood up abruptly. His face, which had been set and determined before, broke into a toothy grin when he saw who he had bumped into. "Crouch!" He always spoke slowly, tripping over the English words. A good thing, too, for anyone listening to him. His accent was so thick that had he talked at a normal pace, it would have been difficult to tell that he was speaking English at all. Bashir continued; "I was looking for you! Were is Arthur Weasley? I must speak with him immediately. His embargo-"  
  
Crouch frowned, straightening his tie. "If this is about those carpets..."  
  
"What else would it be about?" Bashir exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "I tell you, there's money to be made in them! Think of all the trouble it would save. No more slow muggle cars, no more traffic-"  
  
"Ali, as much as I would like to stay and continue debating with you, I really need to be on my way." Said Crouch, interrupting him. "I have a list of requests from the Bulgarian team, and I can't find Ludo Bagman anywhere." Bashir looked at him. "Bagman? I saw him just a few moments ago, collecting more bets before the match. Ask Louis McNay, he might be able to tell you." He pointed in the direction of McNay's tent. "And if you see Arthur Weasley, tell him I want a word!" He added as Crouch walked away, rolling his eyes.  
  
He found Louis McNay, a tall, dark-haired young man, sitting in the shadow of one of the more modest wizarding tents. McNay smiled and waved when he saw Crouch approaching, and ran over to meet him. "Hello, Barty!" He exclaimed, grinning even wider. Crouch winced at the shortened version of his name. Most of the younger employees at the Ministry simply called him "Mr. Crouch," which sounded far more respectful than plain "Barty."  
  
Deciding to ignore McNay's discourtesy, he said: "Louis, have you seen Ludo Bagman? Ali Bashir said-"  
  
"Yes, as a matter of fact you just missed him!" McNay cut in, trying Crouch's patience further. "I made a bet with him on Ireland to win the match." He chuckled. "Poor fellow's going to be sorry come morning, he'll have a mountain of debts to pay off. I mean really, Bulgaria's seeker may be good, one of the best in fact;" he admitted, "But the rest of the team's seen better days; they really don't stand a chance."  
  
By now Crouch was growing extremely impatient with the incessant Quidditch-talk he had been hearing all morning. Finally reaching his wits' end, he burst out loudly; "For Merlin's sake, Louis! Where's Bagman?"  
  
McNay, the smile gone from his face to be replaced with an affronted look, replied grumpily: "Oh yes, that. He said he was visiting the Weasleys' tent next."  
  
With his information collected, Crouch turned on his heel without so much as a goodbye and began to stomp off before stopping in his tracks and saying rather sheepishly; "Er... Louis, where is the Weasleys' tent?"  
  
McNay, whose arms where crossed over his chest, simply jerked his thumb in the opposite direction. As Crouch passed him, he stormed back to his small tent threw the flap open as he ducked inside.  
  
Despite his annoyance with Louis, Crouch still hoped that he hadn't completely ruined the young man's day. *Even though everyone has been ruining mine.* He thought sourly.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Barty Jr.'s day, meanwhile, had been no better than his father's, though far less trying. He had spent most of the morning peering out of the tent flap, which hung open just wide enough for him to see through and observe the activity outside from beneath the folds of the Invisibility Cloak. He tried to open it wider to improve his range of vision, but the Imperius Curse his father had placed on him prevented him from so much as touching any means of escape.  
  
As he watched all of the people outside, able to go about their lives freely, Barty was suddenly struck with a longing to rejoin them. Living for over a decade with only his father and Winky for company, he had nearly forgotten that the world outside existed; the life he had known before Azkaban seemed only a distant memory.  
  
For the first time, Barty began to question the choice he had made fifteen years ago, just after leaving Hogwarts. He wondered if he would have been any happier with his life if he had stayed on the path that had been set for him since birth. He would have surely been free, at least-  
  
No.  
  
Barty shook his head, angry with himself. That wasn't the way to be thinking, not now. He'd made a choice, and despite his recent doubts he still clung to his stubborn belief that it was right.  
  
Absentmindedly, Barty reached for the edge of the tent flap again with an invisible hand. He had long since given up hope that he would escape; all of his dreams of slipping away from his father's prison and aiding his unfortunate master had dissolved over time, so that only a wisp of his former determination remained.  
  
As his hand approached the tent flap, Barty was suddenly struck with the familiar sensation that meant his father's Imperius Curse had done it's job. A feeling of helplessness washed over him as he drew back from the entryway; a sense that his mind was no longer his own. Which, he reminded himself angrily, it wasn't.  
  
Barty rose from his uncomfortable position on the floor and collapsed onto a nearby couch, rubbing his knees, which were stiff from kneeling on the wooden floorboards. Removing the Invisibility Cloak and leaning back against a rather moldy green pillow, he pulled the left sleeve of his robes up to his shoulder and began to examine the Mark on his forearm as he hadn't done in years.  
  
The Dark Mark was red and dull now, but he remembered when it had been as black as pitch, and had burned like fire whenever his Master had need of him. Running his fingers over the lifeless imprint, Barty smiled, recalling the night it had been placed there by the Dark Lord's own hand.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 1980  
  
Only Lord Voldemort's elite circle of followers ever attended the initiations of new Death Eaters, as it would be all too easy for a spy to simply hand over the names of all new recruits to the Ministry of Magic if the entire group congregated to watch. That night, Barty was one of seven men who were waiting to receive the Mark. Only seventeen, he was by far the youngest of the group which consisted of himself, Augustus Rookwood, and six men he had never met.  
  
Rookwood, who had known Barty since childhood, was taken aback when he saw the young man. "Barty?" he said, squinting slightly, as though not quite sure that he was seeing correctly. "Barty Crouch? What're you doing here, lad?"  
  
Barty frowned; he hated being addressed as though he was a child, but he gave a curt answer. "The same as you, Rookwood."  
  
"Aren't you a bit... well, young to be-"  
  
"No." Barty snapped, losing his patience with the man. "Aren't you a bit *old?*"  
  
Rookwood backed down and began examining his shoes, but Barty saw the man's eyes dart toward him once or twice.  
  
They were called into a room of marble and silver, filled with a score of the Dark Lord's elite and, sitting at the end of the room in an imposing throne of raven-hued marble, was Voldemort himself. Some of the Inner Circle, their faces hidden behind dark velvet masks, had obviously recognized Barty, as they whispered among themselves when he passed, some even gasping aloud upon catching sight of him. He could hear bits of their hushed conversations, and recognized a few voices among them, mostly people who had been five or six years older than him at Hogwarts. Those who had known him well were understandably shocked to see Barty there, but those who had known him even better were not.  
  
The group of seven walked towards the back of the room, stopping at a respectful distance from the Dark Lord and kneeling at his feet. Voldemort rose from the marble throne and began pacing up and down in front of them, setting his gaze upon each one in turn. At the time, his blood-red eyes were the only thing connecting him with the creature he would one day become. As his crimson gaze focused on Barty, kneeling beside his comrades, he strode over and lifted the young man's bowed head with a gloved hand. Looking him over carefully, the Dark Lord spoke. "Bartemius Crouch, I presume?"  
  
"Yes, My Lord."  
  
"How old are you, boy?"  
  
"Seventeen, My Lord." He had decided that it would be best to keep his answers as short and respectful as possible.  
  
"Seventeen..." He trailed off, seeming to ponder this for a moment. "Just out of Hogwarts, then, are you? Which house?"  
  
"Slytherin, My Lord."  
  
"Ah. You'll be fine, then. You are younger than any of your comrades, as I'm sure you've noticed, but if you're a Slytherin, I'm sure you'll find your place among us quite easily."  
  
"Thank you, My Lord." Said Barty, elated to have gained the Dark Lord's approval. Voldemort nodded, returning to his throne, and Barty threw a quick smirk at Augustus Rookwood, who was looking at him with envy.  
  
Voldemort pulled out his wand and motioned for them to stand. "One of you, step forward."  
  
The six other men all looked around at each other hopefully, each praying that he would not be the first recipient of the Mark . They were spared, however. Barty, who had been anticipating that moment and whose few doubts had been put to rest by the Dark Lord's vocal approval of him, stepped forward and kneeled at his Master's feet. Holding out his left arm as Voldemort motioned for him to do so, Barty braced himself. The Dark Lord pushed up the sleeve of the young man's robes and, placing the tip of his wand on his servant's forearm, began to whisper a spell that Barty had never heard before. He had no time to listen to the words, however, for as soon as Voldemort began speaking, pain equal to the Cruciatus Curse shot through Barty's arm, and soon spread to his entire body.  
  
Biting his lip against the torturous feeling, the young Death Eater did his best not to scream aloud. All the while, he could feel his Master's eyes on him, observing him. Whimpering, Barty closed his eyes, willing it to be over.  
  
Suddenly the spell was lifted and he collapsed at Voldemort's feet, barely conscious. His body was left with terrible aches and pains, and his left arm was in agony, but these afflictions couldn't compare with what he had just suffered.  
  
Barty's gaze was unfocused, and the two Death Eaters who lifted him up at the Dark Lord's command to set him in a nearby chair swam before his eyes. As Augustus Rookwood was called to receive the Mark, Barty lifted up his left arm and peered at his own. It stood out, ebony against his pale skin.  
  
Despite the pain still coursing through his body, Barty smiled.  
  
His small smile became a fully-fledged grin as he heard Rookwood screaming and struggling at the Dark Lord's feet.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"M-Master Barty?"  
  
Barty jerked upright on the couch, hastily pulling down the sleeve of his robes to conceal the scarlet Mark that was tatooed into his flesh. "What is it, Winky?" he snarled.  
  
The house-elf, who had been standing in the doorway, cringed under his furious gaze. Holding out a tray of sandwiches, she stuttered: "I-it is noon, Master Barty. You is ought to have lunch now."  
  
Without a word of thanks, Barty snatched the tray from her hands and began stuffing the sandwiches into his mouth; he'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't even realized how hungry he was.  
  
Midway through his meal, he noticed that Winky was still standing in the doorway, looking at him in a half-curious, half-frightened way. His fury deepened; she'd been watching him! Picking up an empty glass that had been left on the end table next to him, he waved it above his head threateningly, as though about to strike her with it. "Get out of here!" He roared at her. "Stupid elf, haven't you got anything better to do than spy on me?"  
  
Winky ducked out of the room, hearing the glass shatter as it sailed into a wall behind her. Another mess to clean up. The house-elf chided herself softly as she went to fetch the broom. "'Tis your own fault, Winky! You is a bad elf, spying on Master Barty like that..." She shivered suddenly. Going about her chores at home, the elf had heard enough of Mr. Crouch's ranting about Death Eaters to know what the red mark on Barty's arm was, and what it meant.  
  
Winky knew, of course, that Barty was a Death Eater, but she had never noticed the Dark Mark before and despite everything, in the elf's eyes he had still always been her beloved Master Barty. She had never been truly frightened of him, but her glimpse at the Mark had made his treachery seem all the more real; and although she served and cared for him as faithfully as ever, Winky now viewed her young master through wary eyes.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Mr. Crouch found that it was not difficult to spot the Weasleys' tent among all the others, as very few of them had large groups of redheads, with hair visible from a great distance, clustered around their firesides. Once his destination was in view, Crouch decided not to make the uphill trek and apparated the rest of the way.  
  
Appearing suddenly in front of the Weasleys' tent, Crouch dusted himself off for a moment before turning to the wizards seated by the fire. Ludo Bagman's ever-cheerful voice piped up from his seat on the grass. "Oh- talk of the devil! Barty!"  
  
Crouch winced slightly; Ludo was really the last person he wanted to talk to when he was in such a terrible mood, but with luck he would only have to stay around for a few moments...  
  
Bagman patted the bit of rather muddy-looking ground next to him, grinning. "Pull up a bit of grass, Barty."  
  
"No thank you, Ludo." Crouch said, trying his best to remain courteous, but unable to hide some of the annoyance he felt. Deciding to complete his given task so that he might be off as soon as possible, he continued: "I've been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box."  
  
"Oh is that what they're after? I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent."  
  
Crouch frowned and was about to say something else to Ludo when a familiar voice spoke up from behind him. "Mr. Crouch!" It was his assistant from the office, Percy Weatherby. Crouch couldn't say that he was particularly glad to see the young man there; at work he was often extremely clingy and worked far too hard to prove himself. "Would you like a cup of tea?"  
  
"Oh- yes, thank you, Weatherby." He accepted the offer rather gratefully; perhaps a cup of tea would help move along the exhausting day he'd had up until that moment.  
  
Of course, the day was really just getting started...  
  
  
  
A/N: r/r, please! If you do, I'll rest assured that you haven't given up on me yet! 


	7. A Sleepless Night

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own none of these characters. They all belong to J.K. Rowling.  
  
A/N: Welcome to chapter seven! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. In fact, I'd say it's my favorite so far. Hope you like it!  
  
Chapter 7: A Sleepless Night  
"Come on, come on..." Crouch muttered under his breath. He, Winky, and an invisible Barty Jr. were wading through the crowd of frantic people hurrying toward the stadium to claim their seats. Crouch was trying his best to look inconspicuous while keeping a firm hold on his son's arm; he was half-expecting someone to ask him why he was grasping a handful of air. On Barty's other side, Winky held on tightly to the hem of the Invisibility Cloak, being dragged along in her Masters' rush to the Top Box.  
  
As they neared the purple-carpeted stairs leading into the stadium, Crouch pulled Barty and Winky aside, out of the way of the surging river of spectators. "Remember Winky," he hissed at the elf. "Just take him up to the Top Box, sit him down, and for Merlin's sake *make sure he stays there!*" The elf nodded her head vigorously and he continued, "After the match, wait for everyone else to leave and I'll come to pick you up. If anyone asks, you're saving a seat for me. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
"Good. Hurry up to the Box, the match begins in," he pulled a pocketwatch from his robes and consulted it. "Half an hour. Go on!"  
  
Winky turned around, still clutching the Invisibility Cloak, and led Barty Jr. back toward the flow of people moving steadily into the stadium. Mr. Crouch watched them for a moment, but when they disappeared into the crowd he turned and began to walk back to the tent, his mind a jumble of anxiety.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Winky and Barty reached the Top Box to find that they had it to themselves for the time being. Winky was panting hard; the trip up to the Box was no easy feat for a tiny house-elf that had to clamber up stairs that were easily half her height.  
  
Choosing a seat in the second row, she climbed into a chair and heard Barty Jr. sit down beside her. Looking out onto the Quidditch field, she groaned and threw her hands up to cover her large eyes. Barty saw her and snickered cruelly. "Rather high up aren't we?" He taunted, knowing perfectly well how terrified the elf was. Winky gave a frightened whimper in response, and he persisted. "Just wait until later... all of those people flying around on broomsticks, hundreds of feet in the air..."  
  
Winky buried her face even further in her hands and curled up in a tiny ball on the seat, shaking. "Please, Master Barty," she whimpered. "Stop."  
  
Barty paid her no heed and continued again, his cruel smile growing wider: "Ah, I'd forgotten; you don't like heights, do you Winky? Don't worry. Just try not to imagine falling out of the Box headfirst and hitting the ground from hundreds of feet up-"  
  
The poor house-elf -who was shaking like a leaf- was finally spared as the door opened and eight people with flaming red hair entered, flanked by a rather bushy-haired girl and a thin, black-haired boy sporting round glasses.  
  
Barty Jr. watched as the newcomers took their seats, feeling rather irked that they had spoiled his fun. Taking a closer look at the thin boy, he felt quite sure that he had seen him somewhere before. He wracked his memory for a few moments, but soon turned away, frustrated; he had seen the boy, but could not for the life of him remember where.  
  
Suddenly, the bespectacled young man turned around in his seat to face the spot where the two of them where sitting, and for a split second Barty thought that the Invisibility Cloak had malfunctioned and he'd been spotted. When the young man spoke, however, he addressed Winky.  
  
"*Dobby?*" He said, almost disbelievingly.  
  
Winky peeked out from between her fingers, which were still shielding her eyes. "Did sir just call me Dobby?"  
  
At the sound of her high-pitched, squeaky voice, all of the redheads and the brown-haired girl turned around in their seats to listen. "Sorry," said the boy, looking slightly embarrassed at his mistake. "I just thought you were someone I knew."  
  
"But I knows Dobby too, sir!" Winky exclaimed, and continued: "My name is Winky, sir- and you, sir- you is surely Harry Potter!"  
  
Barty, who had been gazing around at the flashy advertisements covering the inside of the stadium, whipped around. Sure enough, the legendary lightning- shaped scar, which had been covered by the boy's messy hair, stood out against the skin of his forehead. Barty winced suddenly, sure that everyone in the Box must have heard his loud intake of breath, but no one moved.  
  
Harry Potter answered the question casually: "Yeah, I am."  
  
Winky and Potter continued their conversation concerning the house-elf called Dobby, but although Barty's eyes were fixed on Potter the entire time, he was too deep in his thoughts to hear so much as a word that was spoken.  
  
*This* was the Boy-Who-Lived? This scrawny teenager with untidy hair and glasses had defeated his Master, the most powerful wizard who had ever lived? *If I felt like it,* Barty scoffed to himself, *I could probably grab him around the throat in the middle of the match and that would be the end of it!* For a moment, he smiled at the thought of being the one to avenge his Master; of being the most faithful of the Dark Lord's hundreds upon hundreds of supporters.  
  
*Or so-called supporters.* Barty thought bitterly. Lucius Malfoy, with Narcissa and Draco in tow, had just sauntered into the Top Box. Shaking the hand of the Minister of Magic, Malfoy didn't seem a bit concerned about the whereabouts of his unfortunate Master. He turned toward the red-haired man who had been sitting in front of Barty and in an undertone said: "Good Lord, Arthur, what did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn't have fetched this much?" It was obvious that the two were less than friends.  
  
Barty Jr. stared hard at Lucius, twisting around in his seat as the Malfoy family settled themselves in the row directly behind him. As hard as he tried, Barty simply could not understand the former member of the Inner Circle. Lucius had the money and the political influence to find his Lord; why did he not use it? "Coward." Barty whispered softly.  
  
His thoughts were interrupted by the lighthearted voice of Ludo Bagman, who had entered the Box only moments before, echoing through the stadium. "Ladies and gentlemen... welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and seventy-second Quidditch World Cup!" He waited for the thunder of zealous applause emitting from every corner of the stadium to die down before continuing. "And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce...the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"  
  
As the Bulgarian side of the stands erupted with cheers, everyone in the stadium leaned forward in their seats as one to get a good look at the creatures marching onto the field. To the dismay of many a wife attending that day, the Bulgarians had brought along a troop of graceful, silvery- haired veela.  
  
Barty Jr, like every other male in the stadium, was effected by the veelas' magic-induced charm. When he tried to stand up with the rest to get a better view of them, however, he found that his legs refused to let him leave his seat. *Damn Father and his Imperius Curses!* He thought, leaning back to watch the other men and boys in the Top Box make fools of themselves.  
  
Barty snickered as he watched Harry Potter, who was perched on the rim of the Box as though about to jump from it into the crowd below. *Maybe I won't have to kill him myself after all!*  
  
Then the music ceased and the veela stopped their graceful dance. A bellow of outrage rocked the stadium for a moment, and discarded shamrock souvenirs flew through the air as the crowd voiced their support for the Bulgarian team. Or at any rate, for the veela who accompanied them.  
  
Suddenly, Ludo Bagman bellowed: "And now, kindly put your wands in the air... for the Irish National Team Mascots!"  
  
The veelas' beauty was all but forgotten as a green shamrock consisting entirely of leprechauns swept over the crowd, raining their vanishing gold upon the heads of the delighted spectators. As they scrambled about on the floor, no one noticed the gold falling in Barty Jr's seat disappearing into thin air as he stuffed greedy fistfulls of it into the pockets of the Invisibility Cloak.  
  
When everyone had returned to their seats with pockets full of leprechaun gold, Ludo Bagman began to announce the two teams. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome- the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you-" Scarlet-robed players sped onto the field as he read off their names. "Dimitrov! Ivanova! Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaand- Krum!"  
  
"And now, please greet- the Irish National Quidditch Team!" Roared Bagman. "Presenting- Conolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand- Lynch!"  
  
Both teams waved to their fans in the stands below as the referee stepped onto the field. "And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!"  
  
Mostafa released the Bludgers, Quaffle, and the Golden Snitch into the air before blowing his whistle to begin the match. "Theeeey're OFF! And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov..."  
  
Bagman continued with the commentating, but Barty heard none of it. He was looking looking again at Harry Potter. The boy's bright-green eyes were hidden behind a pair of Omnioculars; he was completely focused on the match. Looking at him, Barty's mind flashed back to his earlier thoughts of vengeance. Part of him knew that killing Potter wouldn't bring his master back, that the only thing it would accomplish would be getting him caught and thrown back inside Azkaban, but another part of him still had a hope...  
  
On an impulse, the Death Eater reached forward toward the Boy-who-lived, sure of what he meant to do, but still not certain as to how he meant to go about it. Suddenly, Potter leapt up out of his seat, startling Barty, who half expected the young man to turn around and feel him sitting there. Everyone else in the box had jumped to their feet in the same instant as Potter, and those sitting in the front row of the Top Box were leaning out to get a better view. His mind snapping back to the match for the first time since it began, Barty leaned forward. Aidan Lynch lay sprawled the grass on the floor of the stadium; it looked as though he was fighting to remain conscious.  
  
After having numerous potions poured down his throat, Lynch finally found his feet, and the match began again.  
  
In front of Barty, Potter settled back into his seat. As he did so, Barty spotted a long, black stick of wood protruding from the boy's pocket: his wand. Upon seeing the thing, Barty's heart positively leapt. A wand... all those years locked away... if he had ever had access to a wand in all that time, he would have been free in an instant. Now, finally, he had his chance... there would be no need to kill Potter, all he would have to do was snatch the wand now, and sneak out later that night while everyone else was sleeping. He would go directly to Albania... and then...  
  
A grin spread over his face and he reached out once more to grab the wand. Suddenly, his spirits plummeted. His father's Imperius Curse was beginning to work on him, he could feel it forcing his hand to turn back. This time though, he wouldn't- he just couldn't- resign himself to it as he had in the past. He continued to reach for the pocket of the boy sitting in front of him, now physically aching from the exhaustion of fighting the Curse. Suddenly, all of the invisible tension that had been holding him back vanished, and Barty nearly fell forward in it's absence. In one swift motion, he righted himself and snatched Potter's wand from his pocket, grinning triumphantly.  
  
The match continued, but Barty couldn't have cared less. When Lynch slammed into the ground for the second time and Krum grabbed the snitch, practically handing Ireland the Cup, he was completely oblivious.  
  
From under the cloak Barty gave the wand a trial flick, changing a green Irish rosette that had been dropped on the ground into a small white mouse, which immediately scuttled away to avoid the feet of the exhilerated crowd. He grinned, feeling as victorious as the Irish supporters now stampeding from the stadium to celebrate.  
  
*Thank you very much, Mr. Potter.* he thought giddily. *I'll be sure to thank you before my Master kills you!*  
  
Soon all of the other occupants of the Top Box were gone, and Barty and Winky were left waiting for Mr. Crouch.  
  
Winky was still rather shaken from that morning; the image of the Dark Mark printed on her young Master's arm wouldn't leave her mind. Nervously, she tried to break the silence. "It was a good match, wasn't it, Master Barty? I is glad Ireland won." Of course, she didn't really care one way or another, but it seemed that there was nothing else to say.  
  
"Mm-hmm." Barty mumbled, not listening.  
  
Footsteps echoed on the stairs leading up to the Box and Mr. Crouch entered, peering around for a moment to be sure that they were completely alone. "Well?" He said to Winky. "Did everything work out?"  
  
The elf nodded her head vigorously. "Oh yes, Master. Master Barty is being very good, he isn't making a sound."  
  
"Good. Come on, then. Most of these people will be leaving by Portkey tomorrow, and I'm left to organize it all while the rest of my colleagues are off celebrating." He said distastefully. It was obvious that the person he was talking about for the most part was one Ludovic Bagman.  
  
Winky hopped off her chair and followed him down the steps, dragging Barty Jr. along behind her.  
  
Barty glared at his father's back as they walked along, but his bitter scowl changed to a wicked grin as he reached into his pocket and felt the stolen wand there. It was wonderful to be able to perform magic again. He had felt powerless without it, but now he could use spells... he could even perform the Unforgivables. Watching his father as they ducked into the tent, Barty knew just who to use one on first.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Hours later, Mr. Crouch sat at the small, unsturdy kitchen table, trying to finish the paperwork he had brought with him from the office. There were dark-purple rings under his eyes, as it was nearing one o'clock, and he was consistantly closing his eyes and nodding off for a few minutes at a time before-  
  
BANG!  
  
Crouch started and nearly fell off his chair as yet another firecracker exploded outside. "Damned Quidditch fanatics..." he grumbled, seeking out his quill, which had fallen to the floor as he drifted off to sleep.  
  
It seemed that the exuberant Irish fans did not share his feeling of exhaustion. Their celebrations had gone on since the very moment the match had ended, and showed no sign of ceasing. Twice Crouch attempted to go to bed, but each time his slumber was interrupted by the crash of fireworks or (more than once) the sound of two or more extremely drunken wizards picking a fight just outside his tent.  
  
Around eleven-thirty, he had been making himself a pot of coffee when a leprechaun, toting a mug of beer nearly half it's own size, had burst through the door, sloshing the contents of the mug everywhere as it weaved about. The small, bearded creature had tossed a handful of gold coins at Crouch, who was openly shocked at the sight of it. "Hee hee... I say!" It giggled, and passed out on the floor.  
  
Moments later a haggard-looking Ministry worker had entered, grabbed the unconcious leprechaun, and darted back out the door, saying: "Sorry about that, Mr. Crouch! We're trying to keep them away from the tents, but they just drown us out with their cheering. I'd stay inside if I were you!"  
  
Needless to say, Crouch intended to do just that. As he returned to his paperwork, it seemed to him that the noise of the merrymakers outside had changed from joyous to almost fearful. Screams were mingled with the raucous laughter now, and panic seemed to have stirred in the crowd. His stomach tightened as an ear-pearcing cry of terror sounded through the blur of other voices.  
  
It seemed that Barty Jr. had noticed the change too, for he came out of his room, rubbing bloodshot eyes sleepily. "Wha's goin' on?" He asked, sleep slurring his speech.  
  
"Another fight, most likely; they're all drunk out there." His father said, his eyes never leaving the door, as though he expected another uninvited guest to come bursting through it at any moment. "Go back to sleep." And as an afterthought: "And for Merlin's sake, put on the Cloak when you're out here!"  
  
Barty Jr. was so tired that he forgot to argue, and soon disappeared back into his room, shutting the door behind him.  
  
It was lucky for the both of them that he left without putting up a fight; their third visitor of the night burst in only seconds later. It was Arthur Weasley, gasping for breath and looking extremely distraught. "Barty! They sent me to get you..." he panted, stopping for a moment to catch his breath.  
  
"Why? What's happening?" Crouch questioned, too anxious to be patient. "Have the celebrations gotten that out of hand?"  
  
"Yes! Barty, there are... there are Death Eaters out there! They've caught a family of muggles and..."  
  
Crouch's stomach turned over as Arthur spoke. Death Eaters! He could have sworn that he heard a sharp intake of breath from behind the closed door of his son's bedroom, which meant that Barty Jr. was eavesdropping. He let his fellow Ministry member continue.  
  
"...they've got them up in the air! The two little ones as well! You have to hurry, Barty, there are hundreds of them! We need all the help we can get. They're burning tents as they go along, and there've been at least a dozen injuries already!"  
  
Crouch needed no second invitation; he grabbed his wand and cloak and was out the door in a heartbeat. He turned around only to shout his orders to Winky, who had awoken and padded into the kitchen at the sound of their voices. "Stay here, Winky! Don't leave the tent!"  
  
Barty Jr. had indeed been listening at the door when Arthur Weasley delivered the news. Now, sitting on the little bed in his darkened room, he buried his face in his hands as a cascade of bitterness washed over him. "Hundreds of them." He whispered, repeating the words that Weasley had said. Hundreds of free Death Eaters, and that group consisted only of those who had attended the World Cup!  
  
*And to think that if any *one* person out of those hundreds had ever gone looking for our Master... I would be free now.* He thought bitterly, clenching his fists as anger took him over.  
  
Reaching out to steady himself on the bedside table, his hand struck a long, smooth piece of polished wood. Potter's wand! Barty snatched it up as he remembered.  
  
A scream from outside shattered the silece, and Barty's fury deepened. He felt no pity for the victimized muggles; he had done such things and worse to their kind before. It was their tormentors that were causing the dark, seething hatred he felt now. Those who called themselves Death Eaters and pledged to serve the Dark Lord with their lives, yet turned their backs when their Master was truly in need of them.  
  
They needed to learn! They needed to be punished! And now he, a *faithful* servant, had the means of doing it!  
  
"Oh yes, Father can wait." He whispered, grinning in the darkness. "*They* must be punished first. They'll learn..." Barty gave the wand a flick, sending a shower of green sparks into the corner. He giggled, suddenly feeling rather giddy. "...and *I'll* be free."  
  
The door creaked open suddenly, and Barty hastened to hide the wand before Winky walked in quietly. "Master Barty, is you alright?"  
  
"Oh yes, quite alright. Better, in fact." There was something in his tone that frightened the elf, and she took a step backward as he stood up. She watched as her young master snatched the Invisibility Cloak from the chair where it hung and pulled it on, vanishing instantly.  
  
Her inability to see Barty increased Winky's feeling of anxiety tenfold. She jumped when she heard the floor squeak as he crossed the room and passed through the doorway. Recovering her wits, she ran after him. "Master Barty, where is you going? There is Death Eaters outside!" The elf squeaked, forgetting entirely that the man she was addressing was himself a Death Eater.  
  
Barty laughed, and Winky could tell that she was right in front of him, the only thing standing between him and the door. "No, Winky, they only *say* they're Death Eaters. They don't know what it truly means... so I'll have to teach them, won't I?"  
  
"Master Barty, please, stay-"  
  
"Move, Winky!"  
  
"No-" The elf's protest was cut off as Barty kicked her aside.  
  
"Get out of the way, you stupid elf! They will be punished, and you along with them if you don't stay back!"  
  
Tears slid down Winky's face as she stared up at the spot where she knew Barty stood. Her young master sounded completely mad now; as much as she hated the thought of it disobeying Mr. Crouch, she knew that she had to get Barty as far away from the crowd as possible, where he could do no damage.  
  
Feeling triumphant, Barty started out the door, grinning cruelly. Suddenly, he felt an invisible force pulling him back into the tent. He looked back to see Winky standing there, tears still streaming down her face in a steady flow. "I is sorry Master Barty, but I isn't ought to let you leave!" She sobbed.  
  
Barty noticed that her tiny feet were slipping, and she was already straining to find the effort to hold him back. He would have to drag her with him, but his strength still gave him the upper hand. For a few moments, he dragged her along behind him, but he tired quickly. Soon Winky began to pull him away toward the woods, and no matter how he struggled, Barty was simply too exhausted to fight for very long.  
  
They passed other people once they had reached the safety of the trees. Barty looked back at the campsite and saw utter chaos. Tents burning, people running everywhere, the shouts of the Ministry officials trying to stop the pandemonium, and floating high above the grisly scene, the family of unfortunate muggles.  
  
Winky, struggling on, took them deeper still into the woods. Suddenly, they both heard voices in a nearby clearing. The voices stopped abruptly and then: "Hello?" A slight pause. "Who's there?"  
  
Winky froze in terror, obviously fearing that it was one of the Death Eaters, separated from the group, who had spoken. Barty saw his chance at last. He whipped the wand out of his robes and shouted at the top of his lungs, feeling more exhilerated than ever before-  
  
"MORSMORDRE!"  
  
An enormous formation of sparkling green smoke shot from the wand, soaring into the air. He heard the people in the nearby clearing begin to panic, heard them begin to run toward the spot where he and the absolutely petrified Winky stood, and then:  
  
"STUPEFY!"  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Mr. Crouch darted toward the spot where a cluster of Ministry employees stood. He had rushed back to the tent earlier, only to find it empty. Upon seeing the Dark Mark illuminated against the night sky he had feared the worst.  
  
He brushed past Arthur Weasley as he neared the crowd. "Out of the way, Arthur." In the middle of the congregation of Aurors and Ministry officials, three teenaged children sat, looking confused and frightened. Crouch could tell immediately that they were not to blame for the apparition blazing above their heads, but he knew just as well who *was* responsible. "Which one of you did it?" He snarled at them. "Which one of you conjured the Dark Mark?"  
  
"We didn't do that!" One of them, a thin, dark-haired boy, protested.  
  
His redheaded friend backed him up immediately. "We didn't do anything! What did you want to attack us for?"  
  
"Do not lie, sir! You have been discovered at the scene of the crime!"  
  
"Barty," whispered a member of the group around them, an old witch who had been an Auror in her heyday. "they're kids, Barty, they'd never have been able to-"  
  
Arthur Weasley cut in suddenly. "Where did the Mark come from, you three?"  
  
A young girl, looking quite shaken, answered. "Over there." She pointed to a spot just a few feet away, in the bushes. "There was someone behind the trees... they shouted words- an incantation-"  
  
"Oh, stood over there, did they? Said an incantation, did they? You seem very well informed about how that Mark is summoned, missy-"  
  
The rest of the group was peering through the trees, searching for any sign of the person who had conjured the Dark Mark while talking quietly among themselves.  
  
"We're too late. They'll have Disapparated."  
  
"I don't think so," said Amos Diggory. "Our Stunners went right through those trees, there's a good chance we got them..."  
  
"Amos, be careful!"  
  
Just as Crouch was about to tell them all that it was a lost cause, that they would never find anything, Diggory's voice rang out from the trees. "Yes! We've got them! There's someone here! Unconcious! It's- but- blimey..."  
  
For the third time that night, Crouch's stomach twisted into a knot as he said: "You've got someone? Who? Who is it?"  
  
Diggory marched out of the trees, carrying a small bundle in his arms. He deposited it on the ground in front of his colleagues. It was Winky.  
  
Crouch felt himself begin to shake. "This- cannot- be. No-" He hurried back into the spot where Winky had been found, knowing full well who would be lying there. Sure enough, he found the form of Barty Jr, unconcious, sprawled on the ground just a few feet from where Winky had been. He let out a long sigh, of both exhasperation and relief. He could hear them talking back in the clearing.  
  
"Bit embarrassing. Barty Crouch's house-elf. I mean to say..."  
  
Crouch stood up, mentally marking the spot where his son lay. It *was* embarrassing. It was more than embarrassing. If they had been caught, he could have been sent to Azkaban along with Barty Jr. Yes, Winky would have to go.  
  
Crouch turned and walked back to the group. He locked eyes with Winky, and she looked down, knowing exactly what was coming.  
A/N: Evil, psycho, Death Eater-Barty is really starting to emerge now... I love it. :) r/r, please! 


	8. Birthday Greetings

Chapter 8: Birthday Greetings  
  
A/N: Quite a few people have been wondering why I haven't updated this fic on Fiction Alley, and I thought it time that I gave an explanation. The thing is, chapter three simply won't upload. I've tried everything I can think of, and have asked the monitors, but no one can figure out what's wrong with it... I expect I'll figure something out eventually, but for now I'm stumped. If anyone has any ideas, please tell me. Thanks!  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to the lucky Ms. J.K. Rowling.  
  
Mr. Crouch strode quickly along the path to the crowded area where he was to retrieve their Portkey home, outwardly deaf to the stifled sobs of the heartbroken elf trailing in his wake.  
  
Winky had sat outside of their tent all through the rest of the night and into the morning. She was now following at a distance, pleading with her former master to take her back. The poor house-elf's pathetic sobs attracted a dangerous amount of attention to Crouch, and his face burned as the surrounding witches and wizards goggled shamelessly at him, no doubt wondering what the man had done to make his poor servant so miserable.  
  
Barty Jr. was only making matters worse; he had slowed them considerably by dragging his feet all the way there like a spoiled ten-year old. Which, his father reflected bitterly, was not far off the mark. Crouch was struggling to keep his son moving while weaving through a gaggle of people, all of them teetering on the brink of panic, including himself. Reinforcements had been called in by the Ministry, and Crouch was terrified that one of the Aurors patrolling nearby would spot him and wonder why he was struggling along like a cripple.  
  
"Barty, over here!" a voice called from the depths of the crowd. Crouch turned around to see Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, waving a one-eyed teddy bear about while making his way slowly toward him. "There we are," he said with an exhausted sigh, offering the bear to Crouch with his left hand while mopping his brow with the other. "That's set to leave in..." he pulled a folded list from his robes and consulted it. "ten minutes."  
  
"Thank you, Basil," said Crouch. Then, noticing the dark bags under his colleague's eyes: "You've had a rough morning, I take it?"  
  
"Rough hardly breaks the surface. I was up before the sun rose, throwing together emergency Portkeys; we weren't prepared for so many to depart today." He ran a hand absentmindedly through his hair. "There'll be big changes in the transportation setup next year, you mark my words."  
  
"Ah, well, perhaps it's for the best," Crouch replied. "A bit of a wake-up call for the Ministry, I should think. Anyway, I'd best be going."  
  
He began to work his way out of the crowd, searching for a clear spot to depart from, but Basil caught his shoulder as he went, nearly making him lose his grip on Barty Jr. "Barty, wait!" the man called anxiously. "Is- is it true what they're saying around camp? About Winky, I mean. Did she really-"  
  
Crouch's polite, concerned manner evaporated on the spot. "I do not wish to discuss that matter right now, Basil. I assure you that Winky is no longer working for me." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the disgraced elf, who was sobbing into her tea-towel just a few paces away. Sure enough, she also had in her possession an old leather glove, held away from her as though it was some disgusting, slimy thing she was being forced to pick up.  
  
"But Barty, I was just wondering;" Basil persisted, "do you think that- well, if she *did* send up the Dark Mark- do you think she could have possibly picked it up from your so-" But Crouch was already gone.  
  
He had stormed off in the middle of Basil's theory, his hand now clamped painfully tight around Barty Jr's wrist. "Ow," Barty protested, trying to wriggle out of his father's grip.  
  
"Quiet!" snapped Crouch, dragging his son along with even greater force. "Do you really want to get us both thrown into Azkaban if someone should hear you? Haven't you finished ruining me yet?" His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, betraying despair.  
  
Barty Jr. was completely silent as they waited to return home. When they arrived, he went straight up to his room without a word. It seemed he had nothing to say.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Barty let the bedroom door quietly click shut behind him before shedding the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it over a chair. He proceded to collapse upon the bed, burying his face in a pillow, competely lost in thought. His last chance to return to his master had been destroyed; he knew perfectly well that his father would never allow him out of the house again, and now there was no Winky there to convince him to do so.  
  
His father's words at the campground were weighing heavily on his mind as well. 'Haven't you finished ruining me yet?' Barty had never been particularly concerned about the elder Crouch's emotions before, especially as regarding himself, but his father's tone had been so filled with despair... he began to wonder just how much the man was regretting smuggling his son to freedom.  
  
Turning over on his side, Barty scowled at the heavy curtains blocking his window. What right did Crouch Sr. have to say such a thing? After all, he had been the one to imprison his son twice over, first in a stone cell and then in his own home. "So who's ruined who, Father?" Barty whispered angrily.  
  
He recalled awakening in the tent early that morning to find his parent glaring down at him. Crouch Sr. hadn't said a word, but had began packing their things for departure immediately. Barty's elation from the night before was lost. He had failed his master.  
  
Now that he had time again to dwell on that thought, Barty buried his face in his hands, utterly disgusted with himself. It had been a foolish, hot- headed mistake, he knew. He had allowed anger to overshadow logic. Escaping and finding Lord Voldemort should have been first priority; the punishment of his fellow Death Eaters could have waited. With the wand, Barty could have easily been far away from the campground when his father came after him, but instead he had lingered, giving Winky time to gain control over him.  
  
And now his last chance was gone, and he had no one to blame for it but himself. His master would wait in vain for someone to come to his aid, but alas, there was no help to be had.  
  
And it was all his fault.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Taking a seat at the enormous dining room table, Crouch Sr. took a bite of a rather crudely made roast beef sandwich. It was going to be very difficult indeed to manage without Winky, he thought as he chewed. Even with the help of magic, his cooking and cleaning skills left much to be desired, and hiring a new house-elf would mean taking a great risk. True, house-elves were extremely loyal creatures, but they did have a sense of morality, and a new servant might not yet be attatched enough to Crouch to allow him to get away with harboring a Death Eater.  
  
No, he would have to make due on his own. Magically stacking his dishes in the sink and employing a rag to wash them, Crouch headed upstairs to his bedroom. When he reached the landing, however, he turned not right but left, in the direction of his son's room. Despite himself, he was worried about Barty; it was nearing noon and the boy had not made a sound since their return.  
  
Cautiously turning the doorknob, Crouch opened the door and snuck quietly inside. At some point, Barty Jr. had pulled the bedclothes over himself and fallen asleep. Crouch noticed that his son had left his shoes on, and was about to summon Winky to remove them when he remembered that there was no Winky.  
  
Sighing, he knelt at the foot of the bed, where Barty's shoes were sticking out from under the quilt. Grasping the laces of one shoe in both hands he untied them and tried to pull first one shoe and then the other off of his son's foot without awakening him. Placing both shoes on the ground, he got back on his feet and started to leave.  
  
Crouch's eye caught sight of the calender as he went out the door, and he realized what day it was; the second of August, Barty's birthday. It was a mere stroke of luck that he had remembered. Even when their son had been a very small child, Secilia had nearly always had to remind her husband -often more than once.  
  
Crossing the hallway to his own bedroom, Crouch sat down at his desk and made a valiant attempt to finish the last of his delayed paperwork for the office. Once he began, however, he recurringly found that his mind simply would not stay on task. With a sigh, he finally gave up and put his work aside; his thoughts were not on work today.  
  
Normally Crouch would never have allowed himself to commit such an undignified act as falling asleep in the middle of the day -in his clothes, no less- but as lack of sleep began to cloud his thoughts, he curled up on the bed and drifted from consciousness.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Crouch winced as he ran a stream of cold water over his index finger, which was burnt after coming into contact with the sizzling frying pan that had cooked his eggs for breakfast that morning. To make matters worse, as he turned around to pick up his hard-earned meal, he discovered that the his scrambled eggs, plate and all, had dissappeared while his back was turned. Clearly, Barty Jr. was making good use of the Invisibility Cloak that was being forced upon him.  
  
Still holding his injured digit, Crouch began making his way slowly through the house, taking note of what needed to be cleaned, polished, or disposed of. He had come to the conclusion that it would be best for him to get the knack of housekeeping now, while he had an entire day to practice. For Crouch had done something that morning that was utterly un-Crouch-like: that is, called the office and told them he could not be at work that day. It was no surprise that his secretary, a young woman whose lipstick was most often worn in shades of blue and purple, (Crouch often wondered if she *wanted* to make herself look half-dead,) had checked up on him the moment she receieved his owl.  
  
He felt rather ashamed of the way he had tried his hardest to fake a believable cough while eluding his concerned employee's questions, ("No, really. I'm sure I will be just fine by tommorrow. Tell young Weatherby to take over for the day...") but it couldn't be helped. Barty Jr. was showing a dangerous ability to evade the curse placed upon him, and it would be unthinkable to leave him to his own devices with no one to guard against an escape, especially after the boy had shown what havoc he could wreak at the World Cup.  
  
Crouch soon advanced to the upper level of the house in order to collect the laundry. Finding his own collection of unwashed clothes was no problem, as he kept them in a single basket in his bedroom closet. Locating his son's laundry, however, was proving to be quite a challenge. Only a few soiled robes were in Barty's room, and all of them were strewn about in the corners instead of arranged neatly in the closet.  
  
After a considerable amount of searching, -with no help from Barty Jr, who simply shrugged and continued to polish off the last of his stolen breakfast when asked the whereabouts of his worn garments- Crouch found the last of the robes piled up on the bathroom floor. With his mission complete, however, the elderly man found that his back ached so terribly that it would have been quite a feat to head back downstairs with an armload of laundry.  
  
Depositing his burden on the ground at his feet, Crouch leaned against the wall for a quick rest. He had to think of a way to lighten his workload; there was no way that a man of his age could keep such a large house in order by himself, magic or no. Unless...  
  
"Barty! Come here, boy!" Crouch hailed his son. Barty Jr. was so surprised to be addressed by name that he emerged from his bedroom without the usual: "Why should I?" or: "Make me!"  
  
Crouch lifted the pile of clothes from the ground, fighting to suppress a groan as he bent down, and placed them in his son's arms. "There we are. Take these downstairs; I'll need to wash them later. And while you're at it," he added as an afterthought, "take care of the dishes in the sink."  
  
Barty Jr's mouth dropped open with indignation. "What?" he spat, and his jaw snapped shut to form a stubborn pout. Letting the laundry tumble from his arms, the young man exclaimed: "No! Why should I have to do *your* work? *I* wasn't the one stupid enough to fire the house-elf!"  
  
"You'll do it because I've *graciously* invited you into my home, and after twelve years, I should say it's high time you repayed me!"  
  
In the Crouch household as of late, the smallest disagreements could evoke the most violent battles, and this last insult was too much for Barty. He mentally stomped on any sympathy that had been forming in his mind and rounded on the older man. "Repay you!" he shrieked. "For what? For keeping me locked away for nearly half my life!? I wish I had died in Azkaban, rather than spend the rest of my life here with *you,* Father!"  
  
Crouch Sr, too, had reached his limit. "I wish the same! I wish your mother was here in your place, so that we could go on living out our lives without your interference! You destroyed everything I created for myself! I wish you were dead!" As soon as the words left his lips, a look of anguish contorted Crouch's features, as though the only thing he truly wished at that moment was to take them back.  
  
But the damage had been done. Too enraged for words, Barty Jr. let loose an anguished howl and struck out at the older man. Crouch toppled over backwards, astonishment and fear etched into his features.  
  
And he had every right to be fearful, for at that moment, Barty Jr. could have killed his elderly father, and would have, too. If he had moved a second faster, Barty would have had an easy time of it; he could have simply pressed down on his parent's exposed throat with his foot and waited for the poor man to suffocate.  
  
But he missed his chance yet again. Crouch Sr. caught hold of his wand during his son's moment of hesitation, and roared, "Supefy!" at the top of his lungs. The spell hit Barty head on, knocking him flat.  
  
Crouch carefully found his feet again and went to kneel at his son's side. Barty stayed motionless. The spell had flipped him over so that he now lay on his stomach with his arms spread-eagled on either side of him, and a large cut running across his jaw. He was out cold. Crouch took a deep breath to make up for the ones he had missed throughout the entire ordeal. His hands were trembling, and his heart was still racing. For a moment he'd thought that Barty was really going to...  
  
Shuddering, Crouch got to his feet, towering above Barty Jr. Although there was no one watching, he tried to keep his calm composure on the outside, to reassure himself if for any reason at all. Inside, though, the hardened man who had sent his own son to prison was ready to cry as he hadn't in years. His own son had been ready to kill him. *And why should he not have?* Said a cruel, taunting little voice in his mind. *After all, you told him that you would have preferred him dead.*  
  
Pushing these thoughts away, Crouch picked up his inanimate son and carried him back to his room, placing the thirty-two-year-old on the bed and tucking him in as though he was a five-year-old again and had fallen asleep on the couch. Looking at him, Crouch found that despite everything he still found it in himself to forgive the son who would have murdered him. It was a strange feeling; he and Barty had never been very close at all. Mr. Crouch had not been a doting parent by any means, and he had fought with his rebellious son often, more and more as the boy grew older.  
  
But Barty had not been a very good son either, he reasoned. Even in the rare times when his father tried to break the stern silence between them, the young man nearly always had an excuse to get away. The two of them were nothing alike, so why should they be expected to get along like an ordinary parent and child?  
  
And why was he just now realizing that he loved his son, no matter how deep that love was buried inside him? Crouch knew that Barty would never accept his sincerity now, so the secret that he had kept from even himself would remain just that.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
That evening, after an entire day of moping around the house while finishing the chores he had nearly forgotten about after the morning's events, Crouch settled back into an armchair for a rest. He hadn't been aware of just how much work was required to maintain such a large house. This made him feel horribly guilty; perhaps he had been putting too much strain on Winky...  
  
There was a slight rapping on a window to his left, and Crouch, lost in thought and completely oblivious to the world around him, jumped slightly. He twisted around to find an owl outside of the window, flapping its wings and desperately trying to stay airborne. Crouch hurried over to let the poor creature in and got out of the way as it dove for the nearest perch it could find to rest its weary wings on.  
  
Collapsing on the arm of an antique chair and digging its talons into the leather so that Crouch winced as though he himself had been punctured, the owl held out a leg with a miniscule piece of parchment tied to it. Accepting the note without so much as a thank you, Crouch sat down to read while the large bird, visibly affronted, turned it's back on him and dug its claws spitefully into the priceless chair once more.  
  
Taking no notice of this, the recipient unfolded the letter, which was covered with neat, practiced handwriting that was easily recognized by Crouch.  
  
*Mr. Crouch,* the note began formally, *I hope my owl did not disturb you, as I have been told that you are very ill. However, I must know what you intend for me to do about several situations which have come to my attention while standing in for you. A 'Daily Prophet' reporter, Rita Skeeter, came to the office this morning to interview you about the events of the night after the World Cup. I explained that you were ill, hoping that she would leave, but instead she demanded to know exactly what was ailing you. When I said that I did not know, she looked at me suspiciously and began asking all sorts of questions concerning your habits as of late. I told her to leave and she finally gave in, but I fear you may be receiving a visit from her sometime today or tomorrow. Another thing: Ali Bashir stopped by again, preaching his usual nonsense, but...*  
  
The letter continued, stating various other office delemmas, all the way down to:  
  
*Please send your instructions quickly. Respectfully, Percy-* the last name of the sender was smudged so badly that it was illegible, but he knew who it was.  
  
Crouch rubbed his temples wearily. He would send Weatherby's instructions in the morning. He irritably waved away the owl which was still perched upon the chair it had claimed. "Go away. I'll send my reply to be sent by a post office owl."  
  
The creature shot him what was unmistakably a glare, and tore its talons from the fabric of the chair, ripping off a bit of material before taking off through the open window. Watching it leave, Crouch noticed that the sun had set without his noticing. Shutting the window and pulling the curtain over it, he realized that he had not eaten a full meal all day. On his way to the kitchen, however, Crouch took a detour upstairs to check on Barty Jr.  
  
The younger man was still unconscious, but he had obviously been moving about in his dream state; the bedclothes were nearly all on the floor. Placing the quilt back over his son's body and wondering why he was suddenly being so tender, Crouch jumped as he heard the doorbell downstairs ring. He groaned, sure that it was Rita Skeeter. He considered not answering the door, but knew all too well that this would only make the persistant reporter even more suspicious.  
  
Making his way quietly out of the room and down the stairs, Crouch heard his stomach utter a loud rumble. He'd best send Rita away as quickly as possible; hunger pains were gnawing at him constantly. He strode over to the heavy oak front doors and unlocked them without taking a peek outside beforehand, as he would have if the visit had been a complete surprise. Grasping the large, brass knob, Crouch turned it with a quick, irritated jerk and opened the doors wide.  
  
The word that greeted him, however, was not the cheerful "Hello" that he had expected.  
  
"Imperio!"  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Wake up! Hey, wake up!"  
  
"He's unconscious, you fool; shaking him won't do a thing. Move me closer." A slight pause, and then: "Ennervate!"  
  
Barty groaned, putting a hand to his injured head. His eyes flickered open slowly. He lay on his side, facing the window; from this veiwpoint, he could not see the two other occupants of his bedroom. Still groggy, he was ready to fall back into his state of deep slumber when a slight tap on his left shoulder startled him awake.  
  
Barty whirled around to face person who had awoken him. Expecting to see his father standing there, he began to form a satiric comment in his mind; but Mr. Crouch was not there. Instead, a short, timid-looking man stood at Barty's bedside with a small bundle in his arms, held slightly away from his body as though it was an animal that he feared might bite.  
  
A cry of fright had half left Barty's mouth when the bundle, which was wrapped so thoroughly in folds of cloth that its contents could not be seen, spoke in a frighteningly familiar voice: "Hello, Barty." The words were calm, slightly amused, as though the creature that uttered them was relishing Barty's reaction to them.  
  
For, even before he was addressed, Barty had scrambled out of his bed and slunk back against the wall. "Who are you?" he asked in a low, fearful hiss. "How did you-"  
  
"Get here?" the voice finished, dripping with the same maddening familiarity. "I assure you, entering this house was no delemma at all. Your father was easily subdued; he is sitting downstairs at this very moment, just as I instructed him to."  
  
"You- instructed-"  
  
"You still do not recognize me, I see," the voice sighed. "And no wonder; after all that I've been through... ah, never mind. You will hear that story in time. For now, hold out your left arm; you will soon remember me."  
  
Hesitantly, Barty crept forward, holding out a trembling arm to the creature in the small man's arms. A thin, frail-looking hand reached out of the many folds of cloth and pushed up the sleeve of his robes. A thought struck Barty suddenly, but no; it simply wasn't possible.  
  
Then the hand found the Dark Mark on his arm, and Barty's suspicions were confirmed. Pain only degrees away from the Cruciatus Curse shot through his entire body for a moment, then the Dark Lord removed his hand and it was gone as quickly as it had come.  
  
Barty sank to his knees, from respect as well as exhaustion. "Master."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Once downstairs, Barty sank down onto the couch, breathing hard. There was so much to take in all at once; his master was alive, and here, of all places! He grinned. It was the third of August, meaning that his birthday had been the day before. "Happy belated birthday to me..." he giggled.  
  
A shadow in the corner caught his eye suddenly, and he turned to get a closer look at it. Barty inhaled sharply as he recognized the figure, and a smile spread across his face. Sitting in an oversized armchair, hands folded serenely in his lap, was his father.  
  
Grinning, Barty walked over and knelt next to Crouch's chair. He waved a hand in front of the older man's blank, staring face, and stood up when he got no reaction. Barty looked down at his father, feeling thoroughly elated, for now *he* had the upper hand, and the man sitting in the chair, once the younger man's jailer, was now at his son's mercy.  
  
Barty heard slow, shuffling footsteps coming down the stairs and twisted around. Sure enough, it was his master, whose face had still not been revealed, in the arms of the strange, timid man. He narrowed his eyes; the man looked familiar, somehow. It seemed that his picture had been featured in the *Daily Prophet* once or twice, but Barty couldn't recall when or why.  
  
The man carrying the Dark Lord sensed Barty's eyes upon him, and looked away, shivering slightly, as though this was the last place on earth that he wanted to be. When the man set his master down upon the couch Barty had been sitting on earlier, Voldemort addressed him sharply. "Leave us now, Wormtail. I shall not require your services any more tonight."  
  
Wormtail turned and hurried out of the room, looking grateful for the excuse to leave his master's presence, and the Dark Lord turned to Barty. "Come here, boy," he said in a much gentler voice. Barty obeyed, sitting down next to the small bundle of cloth, and caught the first glimpse of his master's new face as the cloth covering it slipped off. He gasped audibly, and nearly looked away before he caught himself.  
  
The creature sitting before him was chalk-white, a color lighter than even the sickly pale hue Barty had been after returning from Azkaban. It's face was thin and starved, like the arm that had reached out for Barty's Mark earlier, and looked like the face of a snake placed on the body of a malnourished human child. The only feature that this thing before him shared with the cruel, but otherwise human man that he had once known, was the blood-red, slitted eyes that contrasted sharply against the white of his skin, giving the impression that they were glowing.  
  
Voldemort cleared his throat, and Barty suddenly became aware that he was staring. "I apologize, Master," he said quickly, and turned away.  
  
Voldemort gave a sigh akin to the one he had uttered in Barty's room, and said. "Never mind. I'll soon have a true body, if all goes according to plan."  
  
"There is a plan, My Lord?"  
  
"Oh yes," the Dark Lord replied, grinning. "A plan involving you, boy. In fact, *you* are the plan."  
  
"I- me?" Barty was startled.  
  
"Yes. Don't worry, it will all be explain it all in good time. For now, fetch me that letter sitting on the table next to your father."  
  
Barty looked in the direction his master had given, and spied the letter lying on the walnut end table next to the elder Crouch's armchair, folded neatly. He retrieved the parchment, opening it and skimming the words inside before handing it over. It appeared to be a plea for instructions from his father's office.  
  
Voldemort read the letter when it was handed to him, and gave a satisfied smile. "Good, they already believe him ill. Do you know your father's handwriting, Barty? Could you forge it?" he inquired, when Barty, rather flattered that the Dark Lord had called him by name, nodded affirmative to his first question.  
  
"I believe I could, My Lord," said Barty. His handwriting was not unlike Mr. Crouch's in the first place, and the Ministry employee had been leaving reports and important documents for the office lying about the house long enough for his son to learn to copy his penmanship.  
  
"Excellent." Voldemort produced a wand from the folds of cloth and held it out before him. "Accio parchment. Accio quill." Both objects flew from a desk in the corner of the room and landed in Barty's lap. "Now, simply copy down what I say in your father's hand. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, Master," Barty nodded, and sat down at the desk, dipping the quill in an inkwell and readying it above the parchment.  
  
"Let's begin, then. Mr.- wait, what is the name of your father's assistant? It's smudged here."  
  
"Percy Weatherby, My Lord."  
  
"All right. Mr. Weatherby," he began again. "I thank you for standing in for me today. I will be returning to the office tommorrow morning, as my day of rest seems to have done me good..."  
  
Barty interrupted suddenly. "You're sending him in tommorrow, My Lord?"  
  
"Yes. He will go about his business under the Imperius Curse, acting as though nothing is happening. Your role in my plan will last many months, and it would arouse suspicion if he were to go missing for that long."  
  
"Ah, I see." This news only made Barty increasingly curious about the nature of his task, but he persisted to wait.  
  
Finishing the letter as his master gave him the words to write, Barty ended with: 'Cordially, Bartemius Crouch Sr.' It sounded like something his father might say.  
  
Voldemort looked the note over and nodded his approval. "Well done. Wormtail!" he called, and waited for a moment before repeating the name loudly. "Wormtail!"  
  
Wormtail dashed clumsily into the room with a half-eaten pastry clutched in one hand and crumbs in a ring around his mouth. "Yesh, m' Lord?" He spewed through a mouthful.  
  
The Dark Lord tossed the letter at him disgustedly. "Here. Find an owl to carry this letter, or take it to the recipient yourself."  
  
"But My Lord, you said-"  
  
"Silence! Do it or I shall kill you right here. Barty has already proved himself to be far more capable than you, meaning that you are no longer indespensible."  
  
Wormtail paled considerably and glared at Barty, who shot him a smug look, before picking the letter up and hurrying off with it, mumbling: "Yes, My Lord."  
  
The Dark Lord turned back to Barty. "Now, then. I expect you wish to know what your part in my plan will be?" Barty nodded eagerly. "I surmised as much. Listen closely..."  
  
A/N: Well, there was chapter eight! My school was out as of yesterday, meaning that I'll have much more time to update now. Although this fic is coming to a close, (I'm only planning one or two chapters after this) I have a few that I've been waiting to get down to for quite a while. r/r, as always! Thanks! 


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